tarn 


MSB 


sm 


ms 


mm 


slftjs 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2019  with  funding  from 
Getty  Research  Institute 


https://archive.org/details/travelswithdonke00stev_1 


THE  BIOGRAPHICAL  EDITION 

OF  THE  WORKS  OF 

ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 


THE  BIOGRAPHICAL  EDITION 
OF  STEVENSON’S  WORKS 


NOVELS  AND  ROMANCES 
TREASURE  ISLAND 
PRINCE  OTTO 
KIDNAPPED 
THE  BLACK  ARROW 
THE  MASTER  OF  BALLANTRAE 
THE  WRONG  BOX 
THE  WRECKER 
DAVID  BALFOUR 
THE  EBB-TIDE 
WEIR  OF  HERMISTON 
ST.  IVES 

SNORTER  STORIES 
NEW  ARABIAN  NIGHTS 
THE  DYNAMITER 

THE  MERRY  MEN,  containing  DR. 

JEKYLL  AND  MR.  HYDE 
ISLAND  NIGHTS’  ENTERTAINMENTS 

ESS  A  VS,  TRA  VELS,  &  SKETCHES 
AN  INLAND  VOYAGE 
TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 
VIRGINIBUS  PUERISQUE 
FAMILIAR  STUDIES 
THE  AMATEUR  EMIGRANT,  containing 
THE  SILVERADO  SQUATTERS 
MEMORIES  AND  PORTRAITS 
IN  THE  SOUTH  SEAS 
ACROSS  THE  PLAINS 
ESSAYS  OF  TRAVEL  AND  IN  THE 
ART  OF  WRITING 

POEMS 

COMPLETE  POEMS 


THE  LETTERS  OF  ROBERT  LOUIS 
STEVENSON.  2  vols. 


Twenty-seven  volumes.  Sold  singly  or  in  sets 
Per  vol..  Cloth ,  $1.00  ;  Limp  Leather,  $r. 25  net 

Charles  Scribner’s  Sons,  New  York 


BIOGRAPHICAL  EDITION 


TRAVELS  WITH 
A  DONKEY 

IN  THE  CEVENNES 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 


WITH  A  PREFACE  BT  MRS.  STETENSON 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER’S  SONS 

1908 


Copyright ,  ipoj 

By  Charles  Scribner’s  Sons 


PREFACE 


TO 

THE  BIOGRAPHICAL  EDITION 

* 

TiHE  two  inland  voyagers,  Louis  Stevenson 
and  Sir  Walter  Simpson,  returned  from 
their  cruise  so  greatly  refreshed  in  mind 
and  body  that  it  was  determined  to  repeat  the  ex¬ 
perience  as  soon  as  possible.  But,  as  time  passed, 
Sir  Walter's  enthusiasm  waned,  and,  besides,  he 
looked  askance  at  the  idea  of  taking  the  road  on 
foot,  as  his  comrade  proposed.  His  gait  was  very 
deliberate,  with  short,  even,  careful  steps,  so  that 
he  was  soon  left  far  in  the  rear  by  his  more  im¬ 
petuous  companion,  who  forged  ahead  in  a  manner 
that  carried  him  to  his  destination  long  before  the 
arrival  of  Sir  Walter.  Walking  together,  there¬ 
fore,  being  practically  out  of  the  question,  when 

Copyright,  1905,  by  Charles  Scribner’s  Sons 


VI 


PREFACE 


✓ 


the  second  expedition  started,  on  the  23rd  of  Sep¬ 
tember,  1878,  Modestine  and  her  master  comprised 
the  only  members  of  the  party. 

The  twelve  days’  tramp  through  the  Cevennes, 
though  in  some  ways  more  exhausting  than  the 
canoe  voyage,  was  more  to  the  traveller’s  taste, 
having  elements  of  romance  the  former  lacked.  To 
the  end  of  his  life  the  author  of  Treasure  Island 
and  the  Child's  Garden  remained  at  heart  a  boy. 
What  could  appeal  more  strongly  to  the  imagi¬ 
nation  of  a  “  lantern  bearer  ”  than  the  thought  of 
sleeping  alone  under  the  stars  in  a  fleecy  blue  bag, 
and  breaking  his  fast  on  bits  of  chocolate  ?  —  to 
say  nothing  of  the  pistol,  which  I  doubt  would  have 
proved  a  very  efficient  weapon  in  time  of  need, 
had  such  a  chance  occurred,  it  being  of  an  anti¬ 
quated  pattern,  uncertain  in  its  mechanism,  and 
more  likely  to  be  a  menace  than  a  protection  to 
its  owner. 

The  management  of  Modestine’ s  pack  must 
have  been  a  source  of  exasperation  and  perplexity 
to  her  master,  for  my  husband  was,  like  his  father 
before  him,  what  the  Scotch  call  a  “  handless 


PREFACE- 


( 


•  • 
Vll 

man.”  Neither  of  them  could  tie  a  knot  that 
would  hold,  and  the  inventor  of  the  revolving' 
lights  and  countless  scientific  instruments  would 
find  himself  helpless  before  the  problem  of  cord¬ 
ing  a  trunk,  or  even  buttoning  his  own  cuffs.  I 
remember  once,  in  an  out-of-the-way  place,  my 
husband  offering  to  carry  wood  from  a  distant 
pile  as  his  share  of  the  camp  work,  my  sister  and  - 
I  to  do  the  cooking.  Our  supply  of  fuel  seeming 
very  scant,  we  looked  into  the  matter  to  find  him 
plodding  wearily  back  and  forth,  fetching  a  single 
stick  at  a  time.  He  certainly  never  attained  “  that 
neat,  hurried,  bite-your-thread  effect  ”  that  he  so 
admired  in  Americans. 

Kegan  Paul  not  only  paid  twenty  pounds  for 
the  Travels  with  a  Donkey ,  but  invited  the  author 
to  dinner,  where  the  shy  young  man  suffered 
agonies  of  embarrassment  over  the  claret  that  was 
served  to  the  guests  alone,  Mr.  Paul  being  an 
abstainer  from  principle.  Would  the  acceptance, 
at  his  invitation,  of  the  wine  Mr.  Paul  thought  it 
wrong  to  take,  put  Mr.  Paul  in  a  false  position? 
And  yet,  on  what  grounds  to  refuse?  This  deli- 


Vlll 


PREFACE 


cate  question  became  so  harassing  to  the  Scotch 
conscience,  that,  as  my  husband  has  told  me,  he 
would  have  infinitely  preferred  to  dine  not  at  all. 

F.  V.  de  G.  S. 


My  dear  Sidney  Colvin, 

The  journey  which  this  little  book  is  to  describe  was  very 
agreeable  and  fortunate  for  me.  After  an  uncouth  beginning, 
I  had  the  best  of  luck  to  the  end.  But  we  are  all  travellers  in 
what  John  Bunyan  calls  the  wilderness  of  this  world,  —  all,  too, 
travellers  with  a  donkey ;  and  the  best  that  we  find  in  our 
travels  is  an  honest  friend.  He  is  a  fortunate  voyager  who 
finds  many.  We  travel,  indeed,  to  find  them.  They  are  the 
end  and  the  reward  of  life.  They  keep  us  worthy  of  ourselves  ; 
and,  when  we  are  alone,  we  are  only  nearer  to  the  absent. 

Every  book  is,  in  an  intimate  sense,  a  circular  letter  to  the 
friends  of  him  who  writes  it.  They  alone  take  his  meaning; 
they  find  private  messages,  assurances  of  love,  and  expressions 
of  gratitude  dropped  for  them  in  every  corner.  The  public  is 
but  a  generous  patron  who  defrays  the  postage.  Yet,  though 
the  letter  is  directed  to  all,  we  have  an  old  and  kindly  custom 
of  addressing  it  on  the  outside  to  one.  Of  what  shall  a  man  be 
proud,  if  he  is  not  proud  of  his  friends  ?  And  so,  my  dear 
Sidney  Colvin,  it  is  with  pride  that  I  sign  myself  affectionately 
yours, 

R.  L.  S. 


¥ 


CONTENTS 


VELAY  Page 

The  Donkey,  the  Pack,  and  the  Pack-saddle  3 

The  Green  Donkey-driver . 13 

I  have  a  Goad . 28 

Upper  Gevaudan 

A  Camp  in  the  Dark  .  .  41 

Cheylard  and  Luc . 59 

Our  Lady  of  the  Snows 

Father  Apollinaris . 69 

The  Monks . 78 

The  Boarders . 91 

Upper  Gevaudan  ( Continued ) 

Across  the  Goulet . 105 

A  Night  among  the  Pines  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  111 

The  Country  of  the  Camisards 

Across  the  LozLre . 123 

Pont  de  Montvert . 132 

In  the  Valley  of  the  Tarn . 143 

Florac . 160 

In  the  Valley  of  the  Mimente . 165 

The  Heart  of  the  Country . 173 

The  Last  Day . 186 

Farewell,  Modestine . 196 


VELAY 


“  Many  are  the  mightv  things,  and 
nought  is  more  mighty  than 
man.  ...  He  masters  by  his 
devices  the  tenant  of  the fields." 
—  Antigone. 

44  Who  hath  loosed  the  bands  of  the 
wild  ass  ?  ”  —  Job. 


VELAY 


THE  DONKEY,  THE  PACK,  AND  THE 

PACK-SADDLE 

IN  a  little  place  called  Le  Monastier,  in  a  pleas¬ 
ant  highland  valley  fifteen  miles  from  Le 
Puy,  I  spent  about  a  month  of  fine  days. 
Monastier  is  notable  for  the  making  of  lace,  for 
drunkenness,  for  freedom  of  language,  and  for 
unparalleled  political  dissension.  There  are  ad¬ 
herents  of  each  of  the  four  French  parties  —  Legit¬ 
imists,  Orleanists,  Imperialists,  and  Republicans 
—  in  this  little  mountain-town;  and  they  all  hate, 
loathe,  decry,  and  calumniate  each  other.  Except 
for  business  purposes,  or  to  give  each  other  the 
lie  in  a  tavern  brawl,  they  have  laid  aside  even 
the  civility  of  speech.  ’T  is  a  mere  mountain 
Poland.  In  the  midst  of  this  Babylon  I  found 
myself  a  rallying-point ;  every  one  was  anxious 
to  be  kind  and  helpful  to  the  stranger.  This  was 


4  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

not  merely  from  the  natural  hospitality  of  moun¬ 
tain  people,  nor  even  from  the  surprise  with  which 
I  was  regarded  as  a  man  living  of  his  own  free  will 
in  Monastier,  when  he  might  just  as  well  have 
lived  anywhere  else  in  this  big  world;  it  arose  a 
good  deal  from  my  projected  excursion  southward 
through  the  Cevennes.  A  traveller  of  my  sort 
was  a  thing  hitherto  unheard  of  in  that  district. 
I  was  looked  upon  with  contempt,  like  a  man  who 
should  project  a  journey  to  the  moon,  but  yet  with 
a  respectful  interest,  like  one  setting  forth  for  the 
inclement  Pole.  All  were  ready  to  help  in  my 
preparations ;  a  crowd  of  sympathisers  supported 
me  at  the  critical  moment  of  a  bargain ;  not  a  step 
was  taken  but  was  heralded  by  glasses  round  and 
celebrated  by  a  dinner  or  a  breakfast. 

It  was  already  hard  upon  October  before  I  was 
ready  to  set  forth,  and  at  the  high  altitudes  over 
which  my  road  lay  there  was  no  Indian  summer  to 
be  looked  for.  I  was  determined,  if  not  to  camp 
out,  at  least  to  have  the  means  of  camping  out  in 
my  possession ;  for  there  is  nothing  more  harass¬ 
ing  to  an  easy  mind  than  the  necessity  of  reaching 


VELAY 


5 

shelter  by  dusk,  and  the  hospitality  of  a  village  inn 
is  not  always  to  be  reckoned  sure  by  those  who 
trudge  on  foot.  A  tent,  above  all  for  a  solitary 
traveller,  is  troublesome  to  pitch,  and  troublesome 
to  strike  again ;  and  even  on  the  march  it  forms 
a  conspicuous  feature  in  your  baggage.  A  sleep¬ 
ing-sack,  on  the  other  hand,  is  always  ready  —  you 
have  only  to  get  into  it ;  it  serves  a  double  purpose 
—  a  bed  by  night,  a  portmanteau  by  day ;  and  it 
does  not  advertise  your  intention  of  camping  out 
to  every  curious  passer-by.  This  is  a  huge  point. 
If  the  camp  is  not  secret,  it  is  but  a  troubled 
resting-place;  you  become  a  public  character;  the 
convivial  rustic  visits  your  bedside  after  an  early 
supper;  and  you  must  sleep  with  one  eye  open, 
and  be  up  before  the  day.  I  decided  on  a  sleeping- 
sack;  and  after  repeated  visits  to  Le  Puy,  and  a 
deal  of  high  living  for  myself  and  my  advisers,  a 
sleeping-sack  was  designed,  constructed,  and  tri- 
umphally  brought  home. 

This  child  of  my  invention  was  nearly  six  feet 
square,  exclusive  of  two  triangular  flaps  to  serve 
as  a  pillow  by  night  and  as  the  top  and  bottom  of 


6  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

the  sack  by  day.  I  call  it  “  the  sack,”  but  it  was 
never  a  sack  by  more  than  courtesy :  only  a  sort  of 
long  roll  or  sausage,  green  waterproof  cart  cloth 
without  and  blue  sheep's  fur  within.  It  was  com¬ 
modious  as  a  valise,  warm  and  dry  for  a  bed. 
There  was  luxurious  turning-room  for  one;  and 
at  a  pinch  the  thing  might  serve  for  two.  I  could 
bury  myself  in  it  up  to  the  neck;  for  my  head  I 
trusted  to  a  fur  cap,  with  a  hood  to  fold  down  over 
my  ears  and  a  band  to  pass  under  my  nose  like 
a  respirator;  and  in  case  of  heavy  rain  I  proposed 
to  make  myself  a  little  tent,  or  tentlet,  with  my 

4 

waterproof  coat,  three  stones,  and  a  bent  branch. 

It  will  readily  be  conceived  that  I  could  not  carry 
this  huge  package  on  my  own,  merely  human, 
shoulders.  It  remained  to  choose  a  beast  of  bur¬ 
then.  Now,  a  horse  is  a  fine  lady  among  animals, 
flighty,  timid,  delicate  in  eating,  of  tender  health ; 
he  is  too  valuable  and  too  restive  to  be  left  alone, 
so  that  you  are  chained  to  your  brute  as  to  a 
fellow  galley-slave;  a  dangerous  road  puts  him 
out  of  his  wits ;  in  short,  he 's  an  uncertain  and 
exacting  ally,  and  adds  thirty-fold  to  the  troubles 


VELAY  7 

of  the  voyager.  What  I  required  was  something 
cheap  and  small  and  hardy,  and  of  a  stolid  and 
peaceful  temper;  and  all  these  requisites  pointed 
to  a  donkey. 

There  dwelt  an  old  man  in  Monastier,  of  rather 
unsound  intellect  according  to  some,  much  fol¬ 
lowed  by  street-boys,  and  known  to  fame  as  Father 
Adam.  Father  Adam  had  a  cart,  and  to  draw  the 
cart  a  diminutive  she-ass,  not  much  bigger  than  a 
dog,  the  colour  of  a  mouse,  with  a  kindly  eye  and 
a  determined  under- jaw.  There  was  something 
neat  and  high-bred,  a  quakerish  elegance,  about  the 
rogue  that  hit  my  fancy  on  the  spot.  Our  first 
interview  was  in  Monastier  market-place.  To 
prove  her  good  temper,  one  child  after  another 
was  set  upon  her  back  to  ride,  and  one  after  an¬ 
other  went  head  over  heels  into  the  air;  until  a 
want  of  confidence  began  to  reign  in  youthful 
bosoms,  and  the  experiment  was  discontinued  from 
a  dearth  of  subjects.  I  was  already  backed  by  a 
deputation  of  my  friends ;  but  as  if  this  were  not 
enough,  all  the  buyers  and  sellers  came  round  and 
helped  me  in  the  bargain ;  and  the  ass  and  I  and 


8 


TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 


Father  Adam  were  the  centre  of  a  hubbub  for  near 
.  half  an  hour.  At  length  she  passed  into  my  ser¬ 
vice  for  the  consideration  of  sixty-five  francs  and 
a  glass  of  brandy.  The  sack  had  already  cost 
eighty  francs  and  two  glasses  of  beer;  so  that 
Modestine,  as  I  instantly  baptised  her,  was  upon 
all  accounts  the  cheaper  article.  Indeed,  that  was 
as  it  should  be ;  for  she  was  only  an  appurtenance 
of  my  mattress,  or  self-acting  bedstead  on  four 
castors. 

I  had  a  last  interview  with  Father  Adam  in  a 
billiard-room  at  the  witching  hour  of  dawn,  when 
I  administered  the  brandy.  He  professed  himself 
greatly  touched  by  the  separation,  and  declared 
he  had  often  bought  white  bread  for  the  donkey 
when  he  had  been  content  with  black  bread  for 
himself ;  but  this,  according  to  the  best  authorities, 
must  have  been  a  flight  of  fancy.  He  had  a 
name  in  the  village  for  brutally  misusing  the  ass ; 
yet  it  is  certain  that  he  shed  a  tear,  and  the  tear 
made  a  clean  mark  down  one  cheek. 

By  the  advice  of  a  fallacious  local  saddler,  a 
leather  pad  was  made  for  me  with  rings  to  fasten 


VELAY 


9 

on  my  bundle;  and  I  thoughtfully  completed  my 
kit  and  arranged  my  toilette.  By  way  of  armoury 
and  utensils,  I  took  a  revolver,  a  little  spirit-lamp 
and  pan,  a  lantern  and  some  halfpenny  candles,  a 
jack-knife  and  a  large  leather  flask.  The  main 
cargo  consisted  of  two  entire  changes  of  warm 
clothing  —  besides  my  travelling  wear  of  country 
velveteen,  pilot-coat,  and  knitted  spencer  —  some 
books,  and  my  railway-rug,  which,  being  also  in 
the  form  of  a  bag,  made  me  a  double  castle  for  cold 
nights.  The  permanent  larder  was  represented  by 
cakes  of  chocolate  and  tins  of  Bologna  sausage. 
All  this,  except  what  I  carried  about  my  person, 
was  easily  stowed  into  the  sheepskin  bag;  and 
by  good  fortune  I  threw  in  my  empty  knapsack, 
rather  for  convenience  of  carriage  than  from  any 
thought  that  I  should  want  it  on  my  journey.  For 
more  immediate  needs,  I  took  a  leg  of  cold  mutton, 
a  bottle  of  Beaujolais,  an  empty  bottle  to  carry 
milk,  an  egg-beater,  and  a  considerable  quantity 
of  black  bread  and  white,  like  Father  Adam,  for 
myself  and  donkey,  only  in  my  scheme  of  things 
the  destinations  were  reversed. 


IO  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 


Monastrians,  of  all  shades  of  thought  in  politics, 
had  agreed  in  threatening  me  with  many  ludicrous 
misadventures,  and  with  sudden  death  in  many 
surprising  forms.  Cold,  wolves,  robbers,  above  all 
the  nocturnal  practical  joker,  were  daily  and  elo¬ 
quently  forced  on  my  attention.  Yet  in  these  vati¬ 
cinations,  the  true,  patent  danger  was  left  out. 
Like  Christian,  it  was  from  my  pack  I  suffered 
by  the  way.  Before  telling  my  own  mishaps,  let 
me,  in  two  words,  relate  the  lesson  of  my  expe¬ 
rience.  If  the  pack  is  well  strapped  at  the  ends, 
and  hung  at  full  length  —  not  doubled,  for  your 
life  —  across  the  pack-saddle,  the  traveller  is  safe. 
The  saddle  will  certainly  not  fit,  such  is  the  im¬ 
perfection  of  our  transitory  life;  it  will  assuredly 
topple  and  tend  to  overset ;  but  there  are  stones 
on  every  roadside,  and  a  man  soon  learns  the  art 
of  correcting  any  tendency  to  overbalance  with  a 
well-adjusted  stone. 

On  the  day  of  my  departure  I  was  up  a  little 
after  five ;  by  six,  we  began  to  load  the  donkey ; 
and  ten  minutes  after,  my  hopes  were  in  the  dust. 
The  pad  would  not  stay  on  Modestine’s  back  for 


VELAY  ii 

half  a  moment.  I  returned  it  to  its  maker,  with 
whom  I  had  so  contumelious  a  passage  that  the 
street  outside  was  crowded  from  wall  to  wall  with 
gossips  looking  on  and  listening.  The  pad  changed 
hands  with  much  vivacity;  perhaps  it  would  be 
more  descriptive  to  say  that  we  threw  it  at  each 
others  heads;  and,  at  any  rate,  we  were  very 
warm  and  unfriendly,  and  spoke  with  a  deal  of 
freedom. 

I  had  a  common  donkey  pack-saddle  —  a  barde, 
as  they  call  it  —  fitted  upon  Modestine ;  and  once 
more  loaded  her  with  my  effects.  The  double 
sack,  my  pilot-coat  (for  it  was  warm,  and  I  was 
to  walk  in  my  waistcoat),  a  great  bar  of  black 
bread,  and  an  open  basket  containing  the  white 
bread,  the  mutton,  and  the  bottles,  were  all  corded 
together  in  a  very  elaborate  system  of  knots,  and 
I  looked  on  the  result  with  fatuous  content.  In 
such  a  monstrous  deck-cargo,  all  poised  above  the 
donkey’s  shoulders,  with  nothing  below  to  balance, 
on  a  brand-new  pack-saddle  that  had  not  yet  been 
worn  to  fit  the  animal,  and  fastened  with  brand- 
new  girths  that  might  be  expected  to  stretch  and 


12  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

slacken  by  the  way,  even  a  very  careless  traveller 
should  have  seen  disaster  brewing.  That  elabo¬ 
rate  system  of  knots,  again,  was  the  work  of  too 
many  sympathisers  to  be  very  artfully  designed. 
It  is  true  they  tightened  the  cords  with  a  will ;  as 
many  as  three  at  a  time  would  have  a  foot  against 
Modestine's  quarters,  and  be  hauling  with  clenched 
teeth ;  but  I  learned  afterwards  that  one  thought¬ 
ful  person,  without  any  exercise  of  force,  can  make 
a  more  solid  job  than  half-a-dozen  heated  and 
enthusiastic  grooms.  I  was  then  but  a  novice; 
even  after  the  misadventure  of  the  pad  nothing 
could  disturb  my  security,  and  I  went  forth  from 
the  stable-door  as  an  ox  goeth  to  the  slaughter. 


THE  GREEN  DONKEY-DRIVER 


THE  bell  of  Monastier  was  just  striking 
nine  as  I  got  quit  of  these  preliminary 
troubles  and  descended  the  hill  through 
the  common.  As  long  as  I  was  within  sight  of 
the  windows,  a  secret  shame  and  the  fear  of  some 
laughable  defeat  withheld  me  from  tampering  with 
Modestine.  She  tripped  along  upon  her  four  small 
hoofs  with  a  sober  daintiness  of  gait;  from  time 
to  time  she  shook  her  ears  or  her  tail ;  and  she 
looked  so  small  under  the  bundle  that  my  mind 
misgave  me.  We  got  across  the  ford  without  diffi¬ 
culty  —  there  was  no  doubt  about  the  matter,  she 
was  docility  itself  —  and  once  on  the  other  bank, 
where  the  road  begins  to  mount  through  pine- 
woods,  I  took  in  my  right  hand  the  unhallowed 
staff,  and  with  a  quaking  spirit  applied  it  to  the 
donkey.  Modestine  brisked  up  her  pace  for  per¬ 
haps  three  steps,  and  then  relapsed  into  her  former 


i4  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

minuet.  Another  application  had  the  same  effect, 
and  so  with  the  third.  I  am  worthy  the  name 
of  an  Englishman,  and  it  goes  against  my  con¬ 
science  to  lay  my  hand  rudely  on  a  female.  I 
desisted,  and  looked  her  all  over  from  head  to 
foot;  the  poor  brute’s  knees  were  trembling  and 
her  breathing  was  distressed;  it  was  plain  that 
she  could  go  no  faster  on  a  hill.  God  forbid, 
thought  I,  that  I  should  brutalise  this  innocent 
creature;  let  her  go  at  her  own  pace,  and  let  me 
patiently  follow. 

What  that  pace  was,  there  is  no  word  mean 
enough  to  describe;  it  was  something  as  much 
slower  than  a  walk  as  a  walk  is  slower  than  a 
run ;  it  kept  me  hanging  on  each  foot  for  an 
incredible  length  of  time;  in  five  minutes  it  ex¬ 
hausted  the  spirit  and  set  up  a  fever  in  all  the 
muscles  of  the  leg.  And  yet  I  had  to  keep  close 
at  hand  and  measure  my  advance  exactly  upon 
hers;  for  if  I  dropped  a  few  yards  into  the  rear, 
or  went  on  a  few  yards  ahead,  Modestine  came  in¬ 
stantly  to  a  halt  and  began  to  browse.  The  thought 
that  this  was  to  last  from  here  to  Alais  nearly 


VELAY 


15 

broke  my  heart.  Of  all  conceivable  journeys,  this 
promised  to  be  the  most  tedious.  I  tried  to  tell 
myself  it  was  a  lovely  day;  I  tried  to  charm  my 
foreboding  spirit  with  tobacco;  but  I  had  a  vision 
ever  present  to  me  of  the  long,  long  roads,  up 
hill  and  down  dale,  and  a  pair  of  figures  ever 
infinitesimally  moving,  foot  by  foot,  a  yard  to 
the  minute,  and,  like  things  enchanted  in  a  night¬ 
mare,  approaching  no  nearer  to  the  goal. 

In  the  meantime  there  came  up  behind  us  a  tall 
peasant,  perhaps  forty  years  of  age,  of  an  ironical 
snuffy  countenance,  and  arrayed  in  the  green  tail¬ 
coat  of  the  country.  He  overtook  us  hand  over 
hand,  and  stopped  to  consider  our  pitiful  advance. 

“  Your  donkey,”  says  he,  “  is  very  old?  ” 

I  told  him,  I  believed  not. 

Then,  he  supposed,  we  had  come  far. 

I  told  him,  we  had  but  newly  left  Monastier. 

“  Et  voas  marches  comme  ga!”  cried  he;  and, 
throwing  back  his  head,  he  laughed  long  and 
heartily.  I  watched  him,  half  prepared  to  feel 
offended,  until  he  had  satisfied  his  mirth;  and 
then,  “  You  must  have  no  pity  on  these  animals,” 


1 6  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

said  he ;  and,  plucking  a  switch  out  of  a  thicket, 
he  began  to  lace  Modestine  about  the  stern-works, 
uttering  a  cry.  The  rogue  pricked  up  her  ears 
and  broke  into  a  good  round  pace,  which  she  kept 
up  without  flagging,  and  without  exhibiting  the 
least  symptom  of  distress,  as  long  as  the  peasant 
kept  beside  us.  Her  former  panting  and  shaking 
had  been,  I  regret  to  say,  a  piece  of  comedy. 

My  dens  ex  machina,  before  he  left  me,  supplied 
some  excellent,  if  inhumane,  advice;  presented  me 
with  the  switch,  which  he  declared  she  would  feel 
more  tenderly  than  my  cane;  and  finally  taught 
me  the  true  cry  or  masonic  word  of  donkey-drivers, 
“  Proot !  ”  All  the  time,  he  regarded  me  with  a 
comical  incredulous  air,  which  was  embarrassing 
to  confront;  and  smiled  over  my  donkey-driving, 
as  I  might  have  smiled  over  his  orthography,  or 
his  green  tail-coat.  But  it  was  not  my  turn  for 
the  moment. 

I  was  proud  of  my  new  lore,  and  thought  I 
had  learned  the  art  to  perfection.  And  certainly 
Modestine  did  wonders  for  the  rest  of  the  fore¬ 
noon,  and  I  had  a  breathing  space  to  look  about 


VELAY 


*7 

me.  It  was  Sabbath ;  the  mountain-fields  were 
all  vacant  in  the  sunshine;  and  as  we  came  down 
through  St.  Martin  de  Frugeres,  the  church  was 
crowded  to  the  door,  there  were  people  kneeling 
without  upon  the  steps,  and  the  sound  of  the 
priest’s  chanting  came  forth  out  of  the  dim  in¬ 
terior.  It  gave  me  a  home  feeling  on  the  spot; 
for  I  am  a  countryman  of  the  Sabbath,  so  to 
speak,  and  all  Sabbath  observances,  like  a  Scotch 
accent,  strike  in  me  mixed  feelings,  grateful  and 
the  reverse.  It  is  only  a  traveller,  hurrying  by 
like  a  person  from  another  planet,  who  can  rightly 
enjoy  the  peace  and  beauty  of  the  great  ascetic 
feast.  The  sight  of  the  resting  country  does  his 
spirit  good.  There  is  something  better  than  music 
in  the  wide  unusual  silence;  and  it  disposes  him 
to  amiable  thoughts,  like  the  sound  of  a  little  river 
or  the  warmth  of  sunlight. 

In  this  pleasant  humour  I  came  down  the  hill 
to  where  Goudet  stands  in  the  green  end  of  a 
valley,  with  Chateau  Beaufort  opposite  upon  a 
rocky  steep,  and  the  stream,  as  clear  as  crystal, 
lying  in  a  deep  pool  between  them.  Above  and 


1 8  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

below,  you  may  hear  it  wimpling  over  the  stones, 
an  amiable  stripling  of  a  river,  which  it  seems 
absurd  to  call  the  Loire.  On  all  sides,  Goudet  is 
shut  in  by  mountains ;  rocky  foot-paths,  practicable 
at  best  for  donkeys,  join  it  to  the  outer  world  of 
France;  and  the  men  and  women  drink  and  swear, 
in  their  green  corner,  or  look  up  at  the  snow-clad 
peaks  in  winter  from  the  threshold  of  their  homes, 
in  an  isolation,  you  would  think,  like  that  of 
Homer’s  Cyclops.  But  it  is  not  so;  the  postman 
reaches  Goudet  with  the  letter-bag;  the  aspiring 
youth  of  Goudet  are  within  a  day’s  walk  of  the 
railway  at  Le  Puy;  and  here  in  the  inn  you  may 
find  an  engraved  portrait  of  the  host’s  nephew, 
Regis  Senac,  “  Professor  of  Fencing  and  Cham¬ 
pion  of  the  two  Americas,”  a  distinction  gained 
by  him,  along  with  the  sum  of  five  hundred  dol¬ 
lars,  at  Tammany  Hall,  New  York,  on  the  ioth 
April,  1876. 

I  hurried  over  my  midday  meal,  and  was  early 
forth  again.  But,  alas,  as  we  climbed  the  inter¬ 
minable  hill  upon  the  other  side,  “  Proot!  ”  seemed 
to  have  lost  its  virtue.  I  prooted  like  a  lion, 


YE  LAY 


x9 

I  prooted  mellifluously  like  a  sucking-dove;  but 
Modestine  would  be  neither  softened  nor  intimi¬ 
dated.  She  held  doggedly  to  her  pace;  nothing 
but  a  blow  would  move  her,  and  that  only  for  a 
second.  I  must  follow  at  her  heels,  incessantly 
belabouring.  A  moment’s  pause  in  this  ignoble 
toil,  and  she  relapsed  into  her  own  private  gait. 
I  think  I  never  heard  of  any  one  in  as  mean  a 
situation.  I  must  reach  the  lake  of  Bouchet,  where 
I  meant  to  camp,  before  sundown,  and,  to  have 
even  a  hope  of  this,  I  must  instantly  maltreat  this 
uncomplaining  animal.  The  sound  of  my  own 
blows  sickened  me.  Once,  when  I  looked  at  her, 
she  had  a  faint  resemblance  to  a  lady  of  my  ac¬ 
quaintance  who  formerly  loaded  me  with  kindness ; 
and  this  increased  my  horror  of  my  cruelty. 

To  make  matters  worse,  we  encountered  another 
donkey,  ranging  at  will  upon  the  roadside;  and 
this  other  donkey  chanced  to  be  a  gentleman.  He 
and  Modestine  met  nickering  for  joy,  and  I  had 
to  separate  the  pair  and  beat  down  their  young 
romance  with  a  renewed  and  feverish  bastinado. 
If  the  other  donkey  had  had  the  heart  of  a  male 


20  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

under  his  hide,  he  would  have  fallen  upon  me 
tooth  and  hoof;  and  this  was  a  kind  of  conso¬ 
lation  —  he  was  plainly  unworthy  of  Modestine’s 
affection.  But  the  incident  saddened  me,  as  did 
everything  that  spoke  of  my  donkey’s  sex. 

It  was  blazing  hot  up  the  valley,  windless,  with 
vehement  sun  upon  my  shoulders ;  and  I  had  to 
labour  so  consistently  with  my  stick  that  the  sweat 
ran  into  my  eyes.  Every  five  minutes,  too,  the 
pack,  the  basket,  and  the  pilot-coat  would  take 
an  ugly  slew  to  one  side  or  the  other;  and  I  had 
to  stop  Modestine,  just  when  I  had  got  her  to  a 
tolerable  pace  of  about  two  miles  an  hour,  to  tug, 
push,  shoulder,  and  readjust  the  load.  And  at 
last,  in  the  village  of  Ussel,  saddle  and  all,  the 
whole  hypothec  turned  round  and  grovelled  in  the 
dust  below  the  donkey’s  belly.  She,  none  better 
pleased,  incontinently  drew  up  and  seemed  to 
smile;  and  a  party  of  one  man,  two  women,  and 
two  children  came  up,  and,  standing  round  me 
in  a  half-circle,  encouraged  her  by  their  example. 

I  had  the  devil’s  own  trouble  to  get  the  thing 
righted;  and  the  instant  I  had  done  so,  without 


VELAY 


21 


hesitation,  it  toppled  and  fell  down  upon  the  other 
side.  Judge  if  I  was  hot!  And  yet  not  a  hand 
was  offered  to  assist  me.  The  man,  indeed,  told 
me  I  ought  to  have  a  package  of  a  different  shape. 
I  suggested,  if  he  knew  nothing  better  to  the  point 
in  my  predicament,  he  might  hold  his  tongue. 
And  the  good-natured  dog  agreed  with  me  smil¬ 
ingly.  It  was  the  most  despicable  fix.  I  must 
plainly  content  myself  with  the  pack  for  Modes- 
tine,  and  take  the  following  items  for  my  own 
share  of  the  portage :  a  cane,  a  quart  flask,  a  pilot- 
jacket  heavily  weighted  in  the  pockets,  two  pounds 
of  black  bread,  and  an  open  basket  full  of  meats 
and  bottles.  I  believe  I  may  say  I  am  not  devoid 
of  greatness  of  soul ;  for  I  did  not  recoil  from  this 
infamous  burthen.  I  disposed  it,  Heaven  knows 
how,  so  as  to  be  mildly  portable,  and  then  pro¬ 
ceeded  to  steer  Modestine  through  the  village.  She 
tried,  as  was  indeed  her  invariable  habit,  to  enter 
every  house  and  every  courtyard  in  the  whole 
length;  and,  encumbered  as  I  was,  without  a  hand 
to  help  myself,  no  words  can  render  an  idea  of 
my  difficulties.  A  priest,  with  six  or  seven  others, 


22  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

was  examining  a  church  in  process  of  repair,  and 
he  and  his  acolytes  laughed  loudly  as  they  saw  my 
plight.  I  remembered  having  laughed  myself  when 
I  had  seen  good  men  struggling  with  adversity  in 
the  person  of  a  jackass,  and  the  recollection  filled 
me  with  penitence.  That  was  in  my  old  light  days, 
before  this  trouble  came  upon  me.  God  knows  at 
least  that  I  shall  never  laugh  again,  thought  I. 
But  O,  what  a  cruel  thing  is  a  farce  to  those 
engaged  in  it ! 

A  little  out  of  the  village,  Modestine,  filled  with 
the  demon,  set  her  heart  upon  a  by-road,  and  posi¬ 
tively  refused  to  leave  it.  I  dropped  all  my  bun¬ 
dles,  and,  I  am  ashamed  to  say,  struck  the  poor 
sinner  twice  across  the  face.  It  was  pitiful  to  see 
her  lift  up  her  head  with  shut  eyes,  as  if  waiting 
for  another  blow.  I  came  very  near  crying;  but 
I  did  a  wiser  thing  than  that,  and  sat  squarely 
down  by  the  roadside  to  consider  my  situation 
under  the  cheerful  influence  of  tobacco  and  a  nip 
of  brandy.  Modestine,  in  the  meanwhile,  munched 
some  black  bread  with  a  contrite  hypocritical  air. 
It  was  plain  that  I  must  make  a  sacrifice  to  the 


VELAY 


23 

gods  of  shipwreck.  I  threw  away  the  empty  bottle 
destined  to  carry  milk ;  I  threw  away  my  own 
white  bread,  and,  disdaining  to  act  by  general 
average,  kept  the  black  bread  for  Modestine; 
lastly,  I  threw  away  the  cold  leg  of  mutton  and 
the  egg-whisk,  although  this  last  was  dear  to  my 
heart.  Thus  I  found  room  for  everything  in  the 
basket,  and  even  stowed  the  boating-coat  on  the 
top.  By  means  of  an  end  of  cord  I  slung  it  under 
one  arm;  and  although  the  cord  cut  my  shoulder, 
and  the  jacket  hung  almost  to  the  ground,  it  was 
with  a  heart  greatly  lightened  that  I  set  forth  again. 

I  had  now  an  arm  free  to  thrash  Modestine, 
and  cruelly  I  chastised  her.  If  I  were  to  reach 
the  lakeside  before  dark,  she  must  bestir  her  little 
shanks  to  some  tune.  Already  the  sun  had  gone 
down  into  a  windy-looking  mist ;  and  although 
there  were  still  a  few  streaks  of  gold  far  off  to 
the  east  on  the  hills  and  the  black  fir-woods,  all 
was  cold  and  grey  about  our  onward  path.  An 
infinity  of  little  country  by-roads  led  hither  and 
thither  among  the  fields.  It  was  the  most  point¬ 
less  labyrinth.  I  could  see  my  destination  over- 


24  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

head,  or  rather  the  peak  that  dominates  it;  but 
choose  as  I  pleased,  the  roads  always  ended  by 
turning  away  from  it,  and  sneaking  back  towards 
the  valley,  or  northward  along  the  margin  of  the 
hills.  The  failing  light,  the  waning  colour,  the 
naked,  unhomely,  stony  country  through  which  I 
was  travelling,  threw  me  into  some  despondency. 
I  promise  you,  the  stick  was  not  idle;  I  think 
every  decent  step  that  Modestine  took  must  have 
cost  me  at  least  two  emphatic  blows.  There  was 
not  another  sound  in  the  neighbourhood  but  that 
of  my  unwearying  bastinado. 

Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  my  toils,  the  load 
once  more  bit  the  dust,  and,  as  by  enchantment, 
all  the  cords  were  simultaneously  loosened,  and 
the  road  scattered  with  my  dear  possessions.  The 
packing  was  to  begin  again  from  the  beginning; 
and  as  I  had  to  invent  a  new  and  better  system, 
I  do  not  doubt  but  I  lost  half  an  hour.  It  began 
to  be  dusk  in  earnest  as  I  reached  a  wilderness 
of  turf  and  stones.  It  had  the  air  of  being  a  road 
which  should  lead  everywhere  at  the  same  time ; 
and  I  was  falling  into  something  not  unlike  de- 


VELAY 


25 

spair  when  I  saw  two  figures  stalking  towards  me 
over  the  stones.  They  walked  one  behind  the  other 
like  tramps,  but  their  pace  was  remarkable.  The 
son  led  the  way,  a  tall,  ill-made,  sombre,  Scotch¬ 
looking  man ;  the  mother  followed,  all  in  her  Sun¬ 
day’s  best,  with  an  elegantly-embroidered  ribbon 
to  her  cap,  and  a  new  felt  hat  atop,  and  proffer¬ 
ing,  as  she  strode  along  with  kilted  petticoats,  a 
string  of  obscene  and  blasphemous  oaths. 

I  hailed  the  son  and  asked  him  my  direction. 
He  pointed  loosely  west  and  north-west,  muttered 
an  inaudible  comment,  and,  without  slacking  his 
pace  for  an  instant,  stalked  on,  as  he  was  going, 
right  athwart  my  path.  The  mother  followed 
without  so  much  as  raising  her  head.  I  shouted 
and  shouted  after  them,  but  they  continued  to 
scale  the  hillside,  and  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  my 
outcries.  At  last,  leaving  Modestine  by  herself, 
I  was  constrained  to  run  after  them,  hailing  the 
while.  They  stopped  as  I  drew  near,  the  mother 
still  cursing;  and  I  could  see  she  was  a  hand¬ 
some,  motherly,  respectable-looking  woman.  The 
son  once  more  answered  me  roughly  and  inauclibly, 


2 6  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 


and  was  for  setting  out  again.  But  this  time  I 
simply  collared  the  mother,  who  was  nearest  me, 
and,  apologising  for  my  violence,  declared  that 
I  could  not  let  them  go  until  they  had  put  me  on 
my  road.  They  were  neither  of  them  offended  — 
rather  mollified  than  otherwise;  told  me  I  had 
only  to  follow  them;  and  then  the  mother  asked 
me  what  I  wanted  by  the  lake  at  such  an  hour. 
I  replied,  in  the  Scotch  manner,  by  inquiring  if 
she  had  far  to  go  herself.  She  told  me,  with  an¬ 
other  oath,  that  she  had  an  hour  and  a  half’s  road 
before  her.  And  then,  without  salutation,  the  pair 
strode  forward  again  up  the  hillside  in  the  gath¬ 
ering  dusk. 

I  returned  for  Modestine,  pushed  her  briskly 
forward,  and,  after  a  sharp  ascent  of  twenty 
minutes,  reached  the  edge  of  a  plateau.  The 
view,  looking  back  on  my  day’s  journey,  was 
both  wild  and  sad.  Mount  Mezenc  and  the  peaks 
beyond  St.  Julien  stood  out  in  trenchant  gloom 
against  a  cold  glitter  in  the  east;  and  the  inter¬ 
vening  field  of  hills  had  fallen  together  into  one 
broad  wash  of  shadow,  except  here  and  there  the 


VELAY  a7 

* 

outline  of  a  wooded  sugar-loaf  in  black,  here  and 
there  a  white  irregular  patch  to  represent  a  culti- 
vated  farm,  and  here  and  there  a  blot  where  the 
Loire,  the  Gazeille,  or  the  Lausonne  wandered  in 
a  gorge. 

Soon  we  were  on  a  highroad,  and  surprise 
seized  on  my  mind  as  I  beheld  a  village  of  some 
magnitude  close  at  hand ;  for  I  had  been  told  that 
the  neighbourhood  of  the  lake  was  uninhabited  ex¬ 
cept  by  trout.  The  road  smoked  in  the  twilight 
with  children  driving  home  cattle  from  the  fields; 
and  a  pair  of  mounted  stride-legged  women,  hat  and 
cap  and  all,  dashed  past  me  at  a  hammering  trot 
from  the  canton  where  they  had  been  to  church 
and  market.  I  asked  one  of  the  children  where 
I  was.  At  Bouchet  St.  Nicolas,  he  told  me. 
Thither,  about  a  mile  south  of  my  destination,  and 
on  the  other  side  of  a  respectable  summit,  had 
these  confused  roads  and  treacherous  peasantry 
conducted  me.  My  shoulder  was  cut,  so  that  it 
hurt  sharply;  my  arm  ached  like  toothache  from 
perpetual  beating;  I  gave  up  the  lake  and  my 
design  to  camp,  and  asked  for  the  auberge. 


I  HAVE  A  GOAD 


THE  auberge  of  Bouchet  St.  Nicolas  was 
among  the  least  pretentious  I  have  ever 
visited ;  but  I  saw  many  more  of  the 
like  upon  my  journey.  Indeed,  it  was  typical  of 
these  French  highlands.  Imagine  a  cottage  of  two 
stories,  with  a  bench  before  the  door;  the  stable 
and  kitchen  in  a  suite,  so  that  Modestine  ana  I 
could  hear  each  other  dining;  furniture  of  the 
plainest,  earthen  floors,  a  single  bed-chamber  for 
travellers,  and  that  without  any  convenience  but 
beds.  In  the  kitchen  cooking  and  eating  go  for¬ 
ward  side  by  side,  and  the  family  sleep  at  night. 
Any  one  who  has  a  fancy  to  wash  must  do  so  in 
public  at  the  common  table.  The  food  is  some¬ 
times  spare;  hard  fish  and  omelette  have  been 
my  portion  more  than  once;  the  wine  is  of  the 
smallest,  the  brandy  abominable  to  man;  and  the 
visit  of  a  fat  sow,  grouting  under  the  table  and 


VELAY 


29 

rubbing  against  your  legs,  is  no  impossible  accom¬ 
paniment  to  dinner. 

But  the  people  of  the  inn,  in  nine  cases  out  of 
ten,  show  themselves  friendly  and  considerate.  As 
soon  as  you  cross  the  doors  you  cease  to  be  a 
stranger;  and  although  this  peasantry  are  rude 
and  forbidding  on  the  highway,  they  show  a  tinc¬ 
ture  of  kind  breeding  when  you  share  their  hearth. 
At  Bouchet,  for  instance,  I  uncorked  my  bottle  of 
Beaujolais,  and  asked  the  host  to  join  me.  He 
would  take  but  little. 

“  I  am  an  amateur  of  such  wine,  do  you  see?  ” 
he  said,  “  and  I  am  capable  of  leaving  you  not 
enough." 

In  these  hedge-inns  the  traveller  is  expected  to 
eat  with  his  own  knife  ;  unless  he  ask,  no  other 
will  be  supplied :  with  a  glass,  a  whang  of  bread, 
and  an  iron  fork,  the  table  is  completely  laid.  My 
knife  was  cordially  admired  by  the  landlord  of 
Bouchet,  and  the  spring  filled  him  with  wonder. 

“  I  should  never  have  guessed  that,"  he  said. 
“  I  would  bet,"  he  added,  weighing  it  in  his  hand, 
“  that  this  cost  you  not  less  than  five  francs." 


30  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

4 

When  I  told  him  it  had  cost  me  twenty,  his  jaw 
dropped. 

He  was  a  mild,  handsome,  sensible,  friendly 

4 

old  man,  astonishingly  ignorant.  His  wife,  who 
was  not  so  pleasant  in  her  manners,  knew  how  to 
read,  although  I  do  not  suppose  she  ever  did  so. 
She  had  a  share  of  brains  and  spoke  with  a  cutting 
emphasis,  like  one  who  ruled  the  roast. 

“  My  man  knows  nothing,”  she  said,  with  an 
angry  nod;  “lie  is  like  the  beasts.” 

And  the  old  gentleman  signified  acquiescence 
with  his  head.  There  was  no  contempt  on  her 
part,  and  no  shame  on  his ;  the  facts  were  accepted 
loyally,  and  no  more  about  the  matter. 

I  was  tightly  cross-examined  about  my  journey; 
and  the  lady  understood  in  a  moment,  and  sketched 
out  what  I  should  put  into  my  book  when  I  got 
home.  “  Whether  people  harvest  or  not  in  such 
or  such  a  place;  if  there  were  forests;  studies 
of  manners ;  what,  for  example,  I  and  the  master 
of  the  house  say  to  you;  the  beauties  of  Nature, 
and  all  that.”  And  she  interrogated  me  with  a 
look. 


VELAY 


3T 

“  It  is  just  that,"  said  I. 

“  You  see,"  she  added  to  her  husband,  “  I  under¬ 
stood  that.'’ 

They  were  both  much  interested  by  the  story 
of  my  misadventures. 

“  In  the  morning,"  said  the  husband,  “  I  will 
make  you  something  better  than  your  cane.  Such 
a  beast  as  that  feels  nothing;  it  is  in  the  proverb 
—  dur  comme  un  anc ;  you  might  beat  her  insen¬ 
sible  with  a  cudgel,  and  yet  you  would  arrive 
nowhere." 

Something  better !  I  little  knew  what  he  was 
offering. 

The  sleeping-room  was  furnished  with  two  beds. 
I  had  one;  and  I  will  own  I  was  a  little  abashed 
to  find  a  young  man  and  his  wife  and  child  in  the 
act  of  mounting  into  the  other.  This  was  my  first 
experience  of  the  sort ;  and  if  I  am  always  to  feel 
equally  silly  and  extraneous,  I  pray  God  it  be  my 
last  as  well.  I  kept  my  eyes  to  myself,  and  know 
nothing  of  the  woman  except  that  she  had  beauti¬ 
ful  arms,  and  seemed  no  whit  abashed  by  my 
appearance.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  situation  was 


32  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

more  trying  to  me  than  to  the  pair.  A  pair  keep 
each  other  in  countenance;  it  is  the  single  gentle¬ 
man  who  has  to  blush.  But  I  could  not  help  attrib¬ 
uting  my  sentiments  to  the  husband,  and  sought 
to  conciliate  his  tolerance  with  a  cup  of  brandy 
from  my  flask.  He  told  me  that  he  was  a  cooper 
of  Alais  travelling  to  St.  Etienne  in  search  of 
work,  and  that  in  his  spare  moments  he  followed 
the  fatal  calling  of  a  maker  of  matches.  Me  he 
readily  enough  divined  to  be  a  brandy  merchant. 

I  was  up  first  in  the  morning  (Monday,  Sep¬ 
tember  23d),  and  hastened  my  toilette  guiltily,  so 
as  to  leave  a  clear  field  for  madam,  the  cooper’s 
wife.  I  drank  a  bowl  of  milk,  and  set  off  to  ex¬ 
plore  the  neighbourhood  of  Bouchet.  It  was  perish¬ 
ing  cold,  a  grey,  windy,  wintry  morning;  misty 
clouds  flew  fast  and  low ;  the  wind  piped  over  the 
naked  platform;  and  the  only  speck  of  colour  was 
away  behind  Mount  Mezenc  and  the  eastern  hills, 
where  the  sky  still  wore  the  orange  of  the  dawn. 

It  was  five  in  the  morning,  and  four  thousand 
feet  above  the  sea ;  and  I  had  to  bury  my  hands 
in  my  pockets  and  trot.  People  were  trooping  out 


VELAY 


33 

to  the  labours  of  the  field  by  twos  and  threes,  and 
all  turned  round  to  stare  upon  the  stranger.  I  had 
seen  them  coming  back  last  night,  I  saw  them 
going  afield  again;  and  there  was  the  life  of 
Bouchet  in  a  nutshell. 

When  I  came  back  to  the  inn  for  a  bit  of  break¬ 
fast,  the  landlady  was  in  the  kitchen  combing  out 
her  daughter’s  hair;  and  I  made  her  my  compli¬ 
ments  upon  its  beauty. 

“  O  no,”  said  the  mother;  “  it  is  not  so  beautiful 
as  it  ought  to  be.  Look,  it  is  too  fine.” 

Thus  does  a  wise  peasantry  console  itself  under 
adverse  physical  circumstances,  and,  by  a  startling 
democratic  process,  the  defects  of  the  majority 
decide  the  type  of  beauty. 

“  And  where,”  said  I,  “  is  monsieur?  ” 

“  The  master  of  the  house  is  up-stairs,”  she 
answered,  “  making  you  a  goad.” 

Blessed  be  the  man  who  invented  goads !  Blessed 
the  innkeeper  of  Bouchet  St.  Nicolas,  who  intro¬ 
duced  me  to  their  use!  This  plain  wand,  with  an 
eighth  of  an  inch  of  pin,  was  indeed  a  sceptre  when 

he  put  it  in  my  hands.  Thenceforward  Modestine 

3 


34  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

was  my  slave.  A  prick,  and  she  passed  the  most 
inviting  stable-door.  A  prick,  and  she  broke  forth 
into  a  gallant  little  trotlet  that  devoured  the  miles. 
It  was  not  a  remarkable  speed,  when  all  was  said; 
and  we  took  four  hours  to  cover  ten  miles  at  the 
best  of  it.  But  what  a  heavenly  change  since 
yesterday!  No  more  wielding  of  the  ugly  cudgel; 
no  more  flailing  with  an  aching  arm;  no  more 
broadsword  exercise,  but  a  discreet  and  gentle¬ 
manly  fence.  And  what  although  now  and  then 
a  drop  of  blood  should  appear  on  Modestine’s 
mouse-coloured  wedge-like  rump?  I  should  have 
preferred  it  otherwise,  indeed;  but  yesterday's 
exploits  had  purged  my  heart  of  all  humanity. 
The  perverse  little  devil,  since  she  would  not  be 
taken  with  kindness,  must  even  go  with  pricking. 

It  was  bleak  and  bitter  cold,  and,  except  a  cav¬ 
alcade  of  stride-legged  ladies  and  a  pair  of  post¬ 
runners,  the  road  was  dead  solitary  all  the  way  to 
Pradelles.  I  scarce  remember  an  incident  but  one. 
A  handsome  foal  with  a  bell  about  his  neck  came 
charging  up  to  us  upon  a  stretch  of  common, 
sniffed  the  air  martially  as  one  about  to  do  great 


VELAY 


35 

deeds,  and,  suddenly  thinking  otherwise  in  his 
green  young  heart,  put  about  and  galloped  off 
as  he  had  come,  the  bell  tinkling  in  the  wind.  For 
a  long  while  afterwards  I  saw  his  noble  attitude 
as  he  drew  up,  and  heard  the  note  of  his  bell ;  and 
when  I  struck  the  highroad,  the  song  of  the  tele¬ 
graph-wires  seemed  to  continue  the  same  music. 

Pradelles  stands  on  a  hillside,  high  above  the 
Allier,'  surrounded  by  rich  meadows.  They  were 
cutting  aftermath  on  all  sides,  which  gave  the 
neighbourhood,  this  gusty  autumn  morning,  an 
untimely  smell  of  hay.  On  the  opposite  bank  of 
the  Allier  the  land  kept  mounting  for  miles  to 
the  horizon :  a  tanned  and  sallow  autumn  land¬ 
scape,  with  black  blots  of  fir-wood  and  white  roads 
wandering  through  the  hills.  Over  all  this  the 
clouds  shed  a  uniform  and  purplish  shadow,  sad 
and  somewhat  menacing,  exaggerating  height  and 
distance,  and  throwing  into  still  higher  relief  the 
twisted  ribbons  of  the  highway.  It  was  a  cheer¬ 
less  prospect,  but  one  stimulating  to  a  traveller. 
For.  I  was  now  upon  the  limit  of  Velay,  and  all 
that  I  beheld  lay  in  another  county  —  wild  Ge- 


36  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

vaudan,  mountainous,  uncultivated,  and  but  re¬ 
cently  disforested  from  terror  of  the  wolves. 

Wolves,  alas,  like  bandits,  seem  to  flee  the  trav¬ 
eller’s  advance;  and  you  may  trudge  through  all 
our  comfortable  Europe,  and  not  meet  with  an 
adventure  worth  the  name.  But  here,  if  any¬ 
where,  a  man  was  on  the  frontiers  of  hope.  For 
this  was  the  land  of  the  ever-memorable  Beast, 
the  Napoleon  Buonaparte  of  wolves.  What  a 
career  was  his !  He  lived  ten  months  at  free 
quarters  in  Gevaudan  and  Vivarais ;  he  ate  women 
and  children  and  “  shepherdesses  celebrated  for 
their  beauty”;  he  pursued  armed  horsemen;  he 
has  been  seen  at  broad  noonday  chasing  a  post- 
chaise  and  outrider  along  the  king’s  highroad,  and 
chaise  and  outrider  fleeing  before  him  at  the  gallop. 
He  was  placarded  like  a  political  offender,  and  ten 
thousand  francs  were  offered  for  his  head.  And 
yet,  when  he  was  shot  and  sent  to  Versailles,  be¬ 
hold  !  a  common  wolf,  and  even  small  for  that. 
“  Though  I  could  reach  from  pole  to  pole,”  sang 
Alexander  Pope ;  the  little  corporal  shook  Europe ; 
and  if  all  wolves  had  been  as  this  wolf,  they  would 


VELAY 


37 

have  changed  the  history  of  man.  M.  Elie  Berthet 

has  made  him  the  hero  of  a  novel,  which  I  have 

read,  and  do  not  wish  to  read  again. 

I  hurried  over  my  lunch,  and  was  proof  against 

the  landlady’s  desire  that  I  should  visit  our  Lady 

of  Pradelles,  “  who  performed  many  miracles, 

although  she  was  of  wood  ” ;  and  before  three 

quarters  of  an  hour  I  was  goading  Modestine 

down  the  steep  descent  that  leads  to  Langogne  on 

the  Allier.  On  both  sides  of  the  road,  in  big  dusty 

fields,  farmers  were  preparing  for  next  spring. 

* 

Every  fifty  yards  a  yoke  of  great-necked  stolid 
oxen  were  patiently  haling  at  the  plough.  I  saw 
one  of  these  mild,  formidable  servants  of  the  glebe, 

who  took  a  sudden  interest  in  Modestine  and  me. 

* 

The  furrow  down  which  he  was  journeying  lay  at 
an  angle  to  the  road,  and  his  head  was  solidly  fixed 
to  the  yoke  like  those  of  caryatides  below  a  pon¬ 
derous  cornice;  but  he  screwed  round  his  big 
honest  eyes  and  followed  us  with  a  ruminating 
look,  until  his  master  bade  him  turn  the  plough 
and  proceed  to  reascend  the  field.  From  all  these 
furrowing  ploughshares,  from  the  feet  of  oxen, 


38  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

from  a  labourer  here  and  there  who  was  breaking 
the  dry  clods  with  a  hoe,  the  wind  carried  away 
a  thin  dust  like  so  much  smoke.  It  was  a  fine, 
busy,  breathing,  rustic  landscape;  and  as  I  con¬ 
tinued  to  descend,  the  highlands  of  Gevaudan  kept 
mounting  in  front  of  me  against  the  sky. 

I  had  crossed  the  Loire  the  day  before;  now 
I  was  to  cross  the  Allier;  so  near  are  these  two 
confluents  in  their  youth.  Just  at  the  bridge  of 
Langogne,  as  the  long-promised  rain  was  begin¬ 
ning  to  fall,  a  lassie  of  some  seven  or  eight 
addressed  me  in  the  sacramental  phrase,  “  D'oust 
que  vous  venezf  ”  She  did  it  with  so  high  an 
air  that  she  set  me  laughing;  and  this  cut  her  to 

the  quick.  She  was  evidently  one  who  reckoned 

* 

on  respect,  and  stood  looking  after  me  in  silent 
dudgeon,  as  I  crossed  the  bridge  and  entered  the 
county  of  Gevaudan. 


UPPER 

GEVAUDAN 

"  The  way  also  here  was  very  weari¬ 
some  through  dirt  and  slabbi- 
ness ;  nor  was  there  on  all  this 
ground  so  much  as  one  inn  or 
victualling-house  wherein  to  re¬ 
fresh  the  feebler  sort."  —  Pil¬ 
grim’s  Progress. 

UPPER  GEVAUDAN 

A  CAMP  IN  THE  DARK 

THE  next  day  (Tuesday,  September  24th), 
it  was  two  o’clock  in  the  afternoon  be¬ 
fore  I  got  my  journal  written  up  and 
my  knapsack  repaired,  for  I  was  determined  to 
carry  my  knapsack  in  the  future  and  have  no 
more  ado  with  baskets;  and  half  an  hour  after¬ 
wards  I  set  out  for  Le  Cheylard  PEveque,  a  place 
on  the  borders  of  the  forest  of  Mercoire.  A  man, 
I  was  told,  should  walk  there  in  an  hour  and  a 
half ;  and  I  thought  it  scarce  too  ambitious  to 
suppose  that  a  man  encumbered  with  a  donkey 
might  cover  the  same  distance  in  four  hours. 

All  the  way  up  the  long  hill  from  Langogne  it 
rained  and  hailed  alternately ;  the  wind  kept  fresh¬ 
ening  steadily,  although  slowly;  plentiful  hurrying 
clouds  —  some  dragging  veils  of  straight  rain- 
shower,  others  massed  and  luminous,  as  though 


42  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

promising  snow  —  careered  out  of  the  north  and 
followed  me  along  my  way.  I  was  soon  out  of 
the  cultivated  basin  of  the  Allier,  and  away  from 
the  ploughing  oxen,  and  such-like  sights  of  the 
country.  Moor,  heathery  marsh,  tracts  of  rock 
and  pines,  woods  of  birch  all  jewelled  with  the 
autumn  yellow,  here  and  there  a  few  naked  cot¬ 
tages  and  bleak  fields,  —  these  were  the  characters 
of  the  country.  Hill  and  valley  followed  valley 
and  hill ;  the  little  green  and  stony  cattle-tracks 
wandered  in  and  out  of  one  another,  split  into 
three  or  four,  died  away  in  marshy  hollows,  and 
began  again  sporadically  on  hillsides  or  at  the 
borders  of  a  wood. 

There  was  no  direct  road  to  Cheylard,  and  it 
was  no  easy  affair  to  make  a  passage  in  this  un¬ 
even  country  and  through  this  intermittent  laby¬ 
rinth  of  tracks.  It  must  have  been  about  four 
when  I  struck  Sagnerousse,  and  went  on  my  way 
rejoicing  in  a  sure  point  of  departure.  Two  hours 
afterwards,  the  dusk  rapidly  falling,  in  a  lull  of 
the  wind,  I  issued  from  a  fir-wood  where  I  had 
long  been  wandering,  and  found,  not  the  looked- 


UPPER  GEVAUDAN  43 

for  village,  but  another  marish  bottom  among 
rough-and-tumble  hills.  For  some  time  past  I 
had  heard  the  ringing  of  cattle-bells  ahead ;  and 
now,  as  I  came  out  of  the  skirts  of  the  wood,  I 
saw  near  upon  a  dozen  cows  and  perhaps  as  many 
more  black  figures,  which  I  conjectured  to  be  chil¬ 
dren,  although  the  mist  had  almost  unrecognisably 
exaggerated  their  forms.  These  were  all  silently 
following  each  other  round  and  round  in  a  circle, 
now  taking  hands,  now  breaking  up  with  chains 
and  reverences.  A  dance  of  children  appeals  to 
very  innocent  and  lively  thoughts ;  but,  at  night¬ 
fall  on  the  marshes,  the  thing  was  eerie  and  fan¬ 
tastic  to  behold.  Even  I,  who  am  well  enough 
read  in  Herbert  Spencer,  felt  a  sort  of  silence  fall 
for  an  instant  on  my  mind.  The  next,  I  was 
pricking  Modestine  forward,  and  guiding  her  like 
an  unruly  ship  through  the  open.  In  a  path,  she 
went  doggedly  ahead  of  her  own  accord,  as  be¬ 
fore  a  fair  wind;  but  once  on  the  turf  or  among 
heather,  and  the  brute  became  demented.  The 
tendency  of  lost  travellers  to  go  round  in  a  circle 
was  developed  in  her  to  the  degree  of  passion,  and 


44  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

it  took  all  the  steering  I  had  in  me  to  keep  even 
a  decently  straight  course  through  a  single  field. 

While  I  was  thus  desperately  tacking  through 
the  bog,  children  and  cattle  began  to  disperse, 
until  only  a  pair  of  girls  remained  behind.  From 
these  I  sought  direction  on  my  path.  The  peas¬ 
antry  in  general  were  but  little  disposed  to  coun¬ 
sel  a  wayfarer.  One  old  devil  simply  retired  into 
his  house,  and  barricaded  the  door  on  my  ap^ 
proach ;  and  I  might  beat  and  shout  myself  hoarse, 
he  turned  a  deaf  ear.  Another,  having  given  me 
a  direction  which,  as  I  found  afterwards,  I  had 
misunderstood,  complacently  watched  me  going 
-wrong  without  adding  a  sign.  He  did  not  care 
a  stalk  of  parsley  if  I  wandered  all  night  upon 
the  hills !  As  for  these  two  girls,  they  were  a 
pair  of  impudent  sly  sluts,  with  not  a  thought 
but  mischief.  One  put  out  her  tongue  at  me, 
the  other  bade  me  follow  the  cows;  and  they 
both  giggled  and  jogged  each  other’s  elbows.  The 
Beast  of  Gevaudan  ate  about  a  hundred  children 
of  this  district;  I  began  to  think  of  him  with 
sympathy. 


UPPER  GEVAUDAN 


45 


Leaving  the  girls,  I  pushed  on  through  the  bog, 
and  got  into  another  wood  and  upon  a  well-marked 
road.  It  grew  darker  and  darker.  Modestine, 
suddenly  beginning  to  smell  mischief,  bettered  the 
pace  of  her  own  accord,  and  from  that  time  for¬ 
ward  gave  me  no  trouble.  It  was  the  first  sign 
of  intelligence  I  had  occasion  to  remark  in  her. 
At  the  same  time,  the  wind  freshened  into  half 
a  gale,  and  another  heavy  discharge  of  rain  came 
flying  up  out  of  the  north.  At  the  other  side  of 
the  wood  I  sighted  some  red  windows  in  the  dusk. 
This  was  the  hamlet  of  Fouzilhic;  three  houses 
on  a  hillside,  near  a  wood  of  birches.  Here  I 
found  a  delightful  old  man,  who  came  a  little 
way  with  me  in  the  rain  to  put  me  safely  on  the 
road  for  Cheylard.  He  would  hear  of  no  reward; 
but  shook  his  hands  above  his  head  almost  as  if 
in  menace,  and  refused  volubly  and  shrilly,  in 
unmitigated  patois. 

All  seemed  right  at  last.  My  thoughts  began 
to  turn  upon  dinner  and  a  fireside,  and  my  heart 
was  agreeably  softened  in  my  bosom.  Alas,  and 
I  was  on  the  brink  of  new  and  greater  miseries ! 


46  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

Suddenly,  at  a  single  swoop,  the  night  fell.  I 

have  been  abroad  in  many  a  black  night,  but  never 

in  a  blacker.  A  glimmer  of  rocks,  a  glimmer  of 

the  track  where  it  was  well  beaten,  a  certain 

fleecy  density,  or  night  within  night,  for  a  tree,  — 

this  was  all  that  I  could  discriminate.  The  skv 

* 

was  simply  darkness  overhead ;  even  the  flying 
clouds  pursued  their  way  invisibly  to  human  eye¬ 
sight.  I  could  not  distinguish  my  hand  at  arm’s 
length  from  the  track,  nor  my  goad,  at  the  same 
distance,  from  the  meadows  or  the  sky. 

Soon  the  road  that  I  was  following  split,  after 
the  fashion  of  the  country,  into  three  or  four  in 
-a  piece  of  rocky  meadow.  Since  Modestine  had 
shown  such  a  fancy  for  beaten  roads,  I  tried  her 
instinct  in  this  predicament.  But  the  instinct  of 
an  ass  is  what  might  be  expected  from  the  name; 
in  half  a  minute  she  was  clambering  round  and 
round  among  some  boulders,  as  lost  a  donkey  as 
you  would  wish  to  see.  I  should  have  camped 
long  before  had  I  been  properly  provided;  but 
as  this  was  to  be  so  short  a  stage,  I  had  brought 
no  wine,  no  bread  for  myself,  and  a  little  over  a 


UPPER  GEVAUDAN  47 

pound  for  my  lady-friend.  Add  to  this,  that  I 
and  Modestine  were  both  handsomely  wetted  by 
the  showers.  But  now,  if  I  could  have  found 
some  water,  I  should  have  camped  at  once  in 
spite  of  all.  Water,  however,  being  entirely  ab¬ 
sent,  except  in  the  form  of  rain,  I  determined 
to  return  to  Fouzilhic,  and  ask  a  guide  a  little 
further  on  my  way  —  “  a  little  farther  lend  thy 
guiding  hand.” 

The  thing  was  easy  to  decide,  hard  to  accom¬ 
plish.  In  this  sensible  roaring  blackness  I  was 
sure  of  nothing  but  the  direction  of  the  wind. 
To  this  I  set  my  face;  the  road  had  disappeared, 
and  I  went  across  country,  now  in  marshy  opens, 
now  baffled  by  walls  unscalable  to  Modestine,  until 
I  came  once  more  in  sight  of  some  red  windows. 
This  time  they  were  differently  disposed.  It  was 
not  Fouzilhic,  but  Fouzilhac,  a  hamlet  little  dis¬ 
tant  from  the  other  in  space,  but  worlds  away  in 
the  spirit  of  its  inhabitants.  I  tied  Modestine  to 
a  gate,  and  groped  forward,  stumbling  among 
rocks,  plunging  mid-leg  in  bog,  until  I  gained  the 
entrance  of  the  village.  In  the  first  lighted  house 


48  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

there  was  a  woman  who  would  not  open  to  me. 
She  could  do  nothing,  she  cried  to  me  through 
the  door,  being  alone  and  lame;  but  if  I  would 
apply  at  the  next  house,  there  was  a  man  who 
could  help  me  if  he  had  a  mind. 

They  came  to  the  next  door  in  force,  a  man, 
two  women,  and  a  girl,  and  brought  a  pair  of 
lanterns  to  examine  the  wayfarer.  The  man  was 
not  ill-looking,  but  had  a  shifty  smile.  He  leaned 
against  the  door-post,  and  heard  me  state  my  case. 
All  I  asked  was  a  guide  as  far  as  Cheylard. 

“  C’est  quc,  voyez-vous,  il  fait  noir”  said  he. 

I  told  him  that  was  just  my  reason  for  requir¬ 
ing  help. 

“  I  understand  that,”  said  he,  looking  uncom¬ 
fortable  ;  “  mais  —  c’est  —  de  la  peine” 

I  was  willing  to  pay,  I  said.  He  shook  his 
head.  I  rose  as  high  as  ten  francs;  but  he  con¬ 
tinued  to  shake  his  head.  “  Name  your  own 
price,  then,”  said  I. 

“  Ce  nest  pas  ca ,”  he  said  at  length,  and  with 
evident  difficulty ;  “  but  I  am  not  going  to  cross 
the  door  —  mais  je  nc  sortirai  pas  de  la  porte  ” 


UPPER  GEVAUDAN 


49 

I  grew  a  little  warm,  and  asked  him  what  he 
proposed  that  I  should  do. 

“  Where  are  you  going  beyond  Cheylard  ?  ”  he 
asked  by  way  of  answer. 

“  That  is  no  affair  of  yours,”  I  returned,  for  I 
was  not  going  to  indulge  his  bestial  curiosity ;  “  it 
changes  nothing  in  my  present  predicament.” 

“  C’est  vrai,  get  ”  he  acknowledged,  with  a  laugh; 
“  oui,  c’est  vrai.  Et  d’oii  venez-vous?” 

A  better  man  than  I  might  have  felt  nettled. 

“  O,”  said  I,  “  I  am  not  going  to  answer  any 
of  your  questions,  so  you  may  spare  yourself  the 
trouble  of  putting  them.  I  am  late  enough  already ; 
I  want  help.  If  you  will  not  guide  me  yourself, 
at  least  help  me  to  find  some  one  else  who  will.” 

“  Hold  on,”  he  cried  suddenly.  “  Was  it  not 
you  who  passed  in  the  meadow  while  it  was  still 
day?” 

“  Yes,  yes,”  said  the  girl,  whom  I  had  not 
hitherto  recognised;  “it  was  monsieur;  I  told 
him  to  follow  the  cow.” 

“  As  for  you,  mademoiselle,”  said  I,  “  you  are 
a  f ar cense E 


5o  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

“  And,”  added  the  man,  “  what  the  devil  have 
you  done  to  be  still  here?” 

What  the  devil,  indeed !  But  there  I  was.  “  The 
great  thing,”  said  I,  “  is  to  make  an  end  of  it”; 
and  once  more  proposed  that  he  should  help  me 
to  find  a  guide. 

“  C’est  que ,”  he  said  again,  “  c’est  que  —  il  fait 
noir.” 

“  Very  well,”  said  I;  “take  one  of  your  lan¬ 
terns.” 

“  No,”  he  cried,  drawing  a  thought  backward, 
and  again  intrenching  himself  behind  one  of  his 
former  phrases;  “I  will  not  cross  the  door.” 

I  looked  at  him.  I  saw  unaffected  terror  strug¬ 
gling  on  his  face  with  unaffected  shame;  he  was 
smiling  pitifully  and  wetting  his  lip  with  his 
tongue,  like  a  detected  school -boy.  I  drew  a  brief 
picture  of  my  state,  and  asked  him  what  I  was 
to  do. 

“  I  don’t  know,”  he  said;  “  I  will  not  cross  the 
door.” 

Here  was  the  Beast  of  Gevaudan,  and  no  mis¬ 


take. 


UPPER  GEVAUDAN 


51 

“  Sir/’  said  I,  with  my  most  commanding  man¬ 
ners,  “  you  are  a  coward.” 

And  with  that  I  turned  my  back  upon  the  family 
party,  who  hastened  to  retire  within  their  forti¬ 
fications;  and  the  famous  door  was  closed  again, 
but  not  till  I  had  overheard  the  sound  of  laughter. 
Filia  barbara  pater  barbarior.  Let  me  say  it  in 
the  plural :  the  Beasts  of  Gevaudan. 

The  lanterns  had  somewhat  dazzled  me,  and  I 
ploughed  distressfully  among  stones  and  rubbish- 
heaps.  All  the  other  houses  in  the  village  were 
both  dark  and  silent;  and  though  I  knocked  at 
here  and  there  a  door,  my  knocking  was  un¬ 
answered.  It  was  a  bad  business ;  I  gave  up 
Fouzilhac  with  my  curses.  The  rain  had  stopped, 
and  the  wind,  which  still  kept  rising,  began  to 
dry  my  coat  and  trousers.  “  Very  well,”  thought 
I,  “  water  or  no  water,  I  must  camp.”  But  the 
first  thing  was  to  return  to  Modestine.  I  am 
pretty  sure  I  was  twenty  minutes  groping  for  my 
lady  in  the  dark;  and  if  it  had  not  been  for  the 
unkindly  services  of  the  bog,  into  which  I  once 
more  stumbled,  I  might  have  still  been  groping 


52  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

for  her  at  the  dawn.  My  next  business  was  to 
gain  the  shelter  of  a  wood,  for  the  wind  was  cold 
as  well  as  boisterous.  How,  in  this  well-wooded 
district,  I  should  have  been  so  long  in  finding  one, 
is  another  of  the  insoluble  mysteries  of  this  day’s 
adventures ;  but  I  will  take  my  oath  that  I  put 
near  an  hour  to  the  discovery. 

At  last  black  trees  began  to  show  upon  my  left, 
and,  suddenly  crossing  the  road,  made  a  cave  of 
unmitigated  blackness  right  in  front.  I  call  it  a 
cave  without  exaggeration ;  to  pass  below  that 
arch  of  leaves  was  like  entering  a  dungeon.  I  felt 
about  until  my  hand  encountered  a  stout  branch, 
and  to  this  I  tied  Modestine,  a  haggard,  drenched, 
desponding  donkey.  Then  I  lowered  my  pack, 
laid  it  along  the  wall  on  the  margin  of  the  road, 
and  unbuckled  the  straps.  I  knew  well  enough 
where  the  lantern  was;  but  where  were  the  can¬ 
dles?  I  groped  and  groped  among  the  tumbled 
articles,  and,  while  I  was  thus  groping,  suddenly 
I  touched  the  spirit-lamp.  Salvation !  This  would 
serve  my  turn  as  well.  The  wind  roared  unweary- 
ingly  among  the  trees ;  I  could  hear  the  boughs 


UPPER  GEVAUDAN  53 

tossing  and  the  leaves  churning  through  half  a 
mile  of  forest;  yet  the  scene  of  my  encampment 
was  not  only  as  black  as  the  pit,  but  admirably 
sheltered.  At  the  second  match  the  wick  caught 
flame.  The  light  was  both  livid  and  shifting;  but 
it  cut  me  off  from  the  universe,  and  doubled  the 
darkness  of  the  surrounding  night. 

I  tied  Modestine  more  conveniently  for  herself, 
and  broke  up  half  the  black  bread  for  her  supper, 
reserving  the  other  half  against  the  morning. 
Then  I  gathered  what  I  should  want  within  reach, 
took  off  my  wet  boots  and  gaiters,  which  I 
wrapped  in  my  waterproof,  arranged  my  knapsack 
for  a  pillow  under  the  flap  of  my  sleeping-bag, 
insinuated  my  limbs  into  the  interior,  and  buckled 
myself  in  like  a  bambino.  I  opened  a  tin  of 
Bologna  sausage  and  broke  a  cake  of  chocolate, 
and  that  was  all  I  had  to  eat.  It  may  sound 
offensive,  but  I  ate  them  together,  bite  by  bite, 
by  way  of  bread  and  meat.  All  I  had  to  wash 
down  this  revolting  mixture  was  neat  brandy :  a 
revolting  beverage  in  itself.  But  I  was  rare  and 
hungry ;  ate  well,  and  smoked  one  of  the  best 


54  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

cigarettes  in  my  experience.  Then  I  put  a  stone  in 
my  straw  hat,  pulled  the  flap  of  my  fur  cap  over  my 
neck  and  eyes,  put  my  revolver  ready  to  my  hand, 
and  snuggled  well  down  among  the  sheepskins. 

I  questioned  at  first  if  I  were  sleepy,  for  I  felt 
my  heart  beating  faster  than  usual,  as  if  with  an 
agreeable  excitement  to  which  my  mind  remained 
a  stranger.  But  as  soon  as  my  eyelids  touched, 
that  subtle  glue  leaped  between  them,  and  they 
would  no  more  come  separate. 

The  wind  among  the  trees  was  my  lullaby. 
Sometimes  it  sounded  for  minutes  together  with  a 
steady  even  rush,  not  rising  nor  abating;  and 
again  it  would  swell  and  burst. like  a  great  crash¬ 
ing  breaker,  and  the  trees  would  patter  me  all 
over  with  big  drops  from  the  rain  of  the  afternoon. 
Night  after  night,  in  my  own  bedroom  in  the 
country,  I  have  given  ear  to  this  perturbing  concert 
of  the  wind  among  the  woods ;  but  whether  it  was 
a  difference  in  the  trees,  or  the  lie  of  the  ground, 
or  because  I  was  myself  outside  and  in  the  midst 
of  it,  the  fact  remains  that  the  wind  sang  to  a 
different  tune  among  these  woods  of  Gevaudan.  I 


UPPER  GEVAUDAN 


55 

hearkened  and  hearkened ;  and  meanwhile  sleep 

took  gradual  possession  of  my  body  and  subdued 

my  thoughts  and  senses;  but  still  my  last  waking 

effort  was  to  listen  and  distinguish,  and  my  last 

conscious  state  was  one  of  wonder  at  the  foreign 

clamour  in  mv  ears. 

* 

Twice  in  the  course  of  the  dark  hours  —  once 
when  a  stone  galled  me  underneath  the  sack,  and 
again  when  the  poor  patient  Modestine,  growing 
angry,  pawed  and  stamped  upon  the  road  —  I  was 
recalled  for  a  brief  while  to  consciousness,  and 
saw  a  star  or  two  overhead,  and  the  lace-like  edge 
of  the  foliage  against  the  sky.  When  I  awoke  for 
the  third  time  (Wednesday,  September  25th),  the 
world  was  flooded  with  a  blue  light,  the  mother  of 
the  dawn.  I  saw  the  leaves  labouring  in  the  wind 
and  the  ribbon  of  the  road ;  and,  on  turning  my 
head,  there  was  Modestine  tied  to  a  beech,  and 
standing  half  across  the  path  in  an  attitude  of 
inimitable  patience.  I  closed  my  eyes  again,  and 
set  to  thinking  over  the  experience  of  the  night. 
I  was  surprised  to  find  how  easy  and  pleasant  it 
had  been,  even  in  this  tempestuous  weather.  The 


56  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

stone  which  annoyed  me  would  not  have  been 
there,  had  I  not  been  forced  to  camp  blindfold  in 
the  opaque  night;  and  I  had  felt  no  other  incon¬ 
venience,  except  when  my  feet  encountered  the 
lantern  or  the  second  volume  of  Peyrat’s  Pastors 
of  the  Desert  among  the  mixed  contents  of  my 
sleeping-bag ;  nay  more,  I  had  felt  not  a  touch  of 
cold,  and  awakened  with  unusually  lightsome  and 
clear  sensations. 

With  that,  I  shook  myself,  got  once  more  into 
my  boots  and  gaiters,  and,  breaking  up  the  rest 
of  the  bread  for  Modestine,  strolled  about  to  see 
in  what  -part  of  the  world  I  had  awakened. 
Ulysses,  left  on  Ithaca,  and  with  a  mind  unsettled 
by  the  goddess,  was  not  more  pleasantly  astray^ 
I  have  been  after  an  adventure  all  my  life,  a  pure 
dispassionate  adventure,  such  as  befell  early  and 
heroic  voyagers ;  and  thus  to  be  found  by  morning' 
in  a  random  woodside  nook  in  Gevaudan  —  not 
knowing  north  from  south,  as  strange  to  my  sur¬ 
roundings  as  the  first  man  upon  the  earth,  an 
inland  castaway  —  was  to  find  a  fraction  of  my 
day-dreams  realised.  I  was  on  the  skirts  of  a 


UPPER  GEVAUDAN  57 

little  wood  of  birch,  sprinkled  with  a  few  beeches; 
behind,  it  adjoined  another  wood  of  fir;  and  in 
front,  it  broke  up  and  went  down  in  open  order 
into  a  shallow  and  meadowy  dale.  All  around 
there  were  bare  hill-tops,  some  near,  some  far 
away,  as  the  perspective  closed  or  opened,  but  none 
apparently  much  higher  than  the  rest.  The  wind 
huddled  the  trees.  The  golden  specks  of  autumn 
in  the  birches  tossed  shiveringly.  Overhead  the 
sky  was  full  of  strings  and  shreds  of  vapour,  fly¬ 
ing,  vanishing,  reappearing,  and  turning  about  an 
axis  like  tumblers,  as  the  wind  hounded  them 
through  heaven.  It  was  wild  weather  and  famish¬ 
ing  cold.  I  ate  some  chocolate,  swallowed  a 
mouthful  of  brandy,  and  smoked  a  cigarette  before 
the  cold  should  have  time  to  disable  my  fingers. 
And  by  the  time  I  had  got  all  this  done,  and  had 
made  my  pack  and  bound  it  on  the  pack-saddle, 
the  day  was  tiptoe  on  the  threshold  of  the  east. 
We  had  not  gone  many  steps  along  the  lane,  before 
the  sun,  still  invisible  to  me,  sent  a  glow  of  gold 
over  some  cloud  mountains  that  lay  ranged  along 
the  eastern  sky. 


58  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

The  wind  had  us  on  the  stern,  and  hurried  us 
bitingly  forward.  I  buttoned  myself  into  my 
coat,  and  walked  on  in  a  pleasant  frame  of  mind 
with  all  men,  when  suddenly,  at  a  corner,  there 
was  Fouzilhic  once  more  in  front  of  me.  Nor 
only  that,  but  there  was  the  old  gentleman  who 
had  escorted  me  so  far  the  night  before,  running 
out  of  his  house  at  sight  of  me,  with  hands 
upraised  in  horror. 

“  My  poor  boy!”  he  cried,  “  what  does  this 
mean?  ” 

I  told  him  what  had  happened.  He  beat  his  old 
hands  like  clappers  in  a  mill,  to  think  how  lightly 
lie  had  let  me  go ;  but  when  he  heard  of  the  man 
of  Fouzilhac,  anger  and  depression  seized  upon  his 
mind. 

“  This  time,  at  least,”  said  he,  “  there  shall  be 
no  mistake.” 

And  he  limped  along,  for  he  was  very  rheu¬ 
matic,  for  about  half  a  mile,  and  until  I  was  almost 
within  sight  of  Cheylard,  the  destination  I  had 
hunted  for  so  long. 


CHEYLARD  AND  LUC 


CANDIDLY,  it  seemed  little  worthy  of  all 
this  searching.  A  few  broken  ends  of 
village,  with  no  particular  street,  but  a 
succession  of  open  places  heaped  with  logs  and 
fagots;  a  couple  of  tilted  crosses,  a  shrine  to  our 
Lady  of  all  Graces  on  the  summit  of  a  little  hill ; 
and  all  this,  upon  a  rattling  highland  river,  in  the 
corner  of  a  naked  valley.  What  went  ye  out  for 
to  see?  thought  I  to  myself.  But  the  place  had  a 
life  of  its  own.  I  found  a  board  commemorating 
the  liberalities  of  Cheylard  for  the  past  year,  hung 
up,  like  a  banner,  in  the  diminutive  and  tottering 
church.  In  1877,  it  appeared,  the  inhabitants  sub¬ 
scribed  forty-eight  francs  ten  centimes  for  the 
“  Work  of  the  Propagation  of  the  Faith.”  Some 
of  this,  I  could  not  help  hoping,  would  be  applied 
to  my  native  land.  Cheylard  scrapes  together 
halfpence  for  the  darkened  souls  in  Edinburgh; 


60  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

while  Balquidder  and  Dunrossness  bemoan  the 
ignorance  of  Rome.  Thus,  to  the  high  entertain¬ 
ment  of  the  angels,  do  we  pelt  each  other  with 
evangelists,  like  school-boys  bickering  in  the 
snow. 

The  inn  was  again  singularly  unpretentious. 
The  whole  furniture  of  a  not  ill-to-do  family  was 
in  the  kitchen :  the  beds,  the  cradle,  the  clothes, 
the  plate-rack,  the  meal-chest,  and  the  photograph 
of  the  parish  priest.  There  were  five  children,  one 
of  whom  was  set  to  its  morning  prayers  at  the 

stair-foot  soon  after  my  arrival,  and  a  sixth  would 

/ 

erelong  be  forthcoming.  I  was  kindly  received  by 
these  good  folk.  They  were  much  interested  in 
my  misadventure.  The  wood  in  which  I  had  slept 
belonged  to  them;  the  man  of  Fouzilhac  they 
thought  a  monster  of  iniquity,  and  counselled  me 
warmly  to  summon  him  at  law  —  “  because  I 
might  have  died."  The  good  wife  was  horror- 
stricken  to  see  me  drink  over  a  pint  of  uncreamed 
milk. 

“  You  will  do  yourself  an  evil,”  she  said.  “  Per¬ 


mit  me  to  boil  it  for  you.” 


UPPER  GEVAUDAN  61 

After  I  had  begun  the  morning  on  this  delight¬ 
ful  liquor,  she  having  an  infinity  of  things  to 
arrange,  I  was  permitted,  nay  requested,  to  make 
a  bowl  of  chocolate  for  myself.  My  boots  and 
gaiters  were  hung  up  to  dry,  and,  seeing  me  try¬ 
ing  to  write  my  journal  on  my  knee,  the  eldest 
daughter  let  down  a  hinged  table  in  the  chimney- 
corner  for  my  convenience.  Here  I  wrote,  drank 
my  chocolate,  and  finally  ate  an  omelette  before 
I  left.  The  table  was  thick  with  dust;  for,  as 
they  explained,  it  was  not  used  except  in  winter 
weather.  I  had  a  clear  look  up  the  vent,  through 
brown  agglomerations  of  soot  and  blue  vapour, 
to  the  sky ;  and  whenever  a  handful  of  twigs 
was  thrown  on  to  the  fire,  my  legs  were  scorched 
by  the  blaze. 

The  husband  had  begun  life  as  a  muleteer,  and 
when  I  came  to  charge  Modestine  showed  himself 
full  of  the  prudence  of  his  art.  “  You  will  have 
to  change  this  package,”  said  he;  “  it  ought  to  be 
in  two  parts,  and  then  you  might  have  double  the 
weight.” 

I  explained  that  I  wanted  no  more  weight;  and 


6 2  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 


for  no  donkey  hitherto  created  would  I  cut  my 
sleeping-bag  in  two. 

“  It  fatigues  her,  however,”  said  the  inn¬ 
keeper;  “it  fatigues  her  greatly  on  the  march. 
Look.” 

Alas,  there  were  her  two  forelegs  no  better  than 
raw  beef  on  the  inside,  and  blood  was  running 
from  under  her  tail.  They  told  me  when  I  left, 
and  I  was  ready  to  believe  it,  that  before  a  few 
days  I  should  come  to  love  Modestine  like  a  dog. 
Three  days  had  passed,  we  had  shared  some  mis¬ 
adventures,  and  my  heart  was  still  as  cold  as  a 
potato  towards  my  beast  of  burthen.  She  was 
pretty  enough  to  look  at ;  but  then  she  had 
given  proof  of  dead  stupidity,  redeemed  indeed 
by  patience,  but  aggravated  by  flashes  of  sorry 
and  ill-judged  light-heartedness.  And  I  own  this 
new  discovery  seemed  another  point  against  her. 
What  the  devil  was  the  good  of  a  she-ass  if  she 
could  not  carry  a  sleeping-bag  and  a  few  neces¬ 
saries?  I  saw  the  end  of  the  fable  rapidly  ap¬ 
proaching,  when  I  should  have  to  carry  Modestine. 
SEsop  was  the  man  to  know  the  world !  I  assure 


UPPER  GEVAUDAN  63 

you  I  set  out  with  heavy  thoughts  upon  my  short 
day’s  march. 

It  was  not  only  heavy  thoughts  about  Modes-  # 
tine  that  weighted  me  upon  the  way;  it  was  a 
leaden  business  altogether.  For  first,  the  wind 
blew  so  rudely  that  I  had  to  hold  on  the  pack 
with  one  hand  from  Cheylard  to  Luc ;  and  second, 
my  road  lay  through  one  of  the  most  beggarly 
countries  in  the  world.  It  was  like  the  worst  of 
the  Scotch  Highlands,  only  worse;  cold,  naked, 
and  ignoble,  scant  of  wood,  scant  of  heather,  scant 
of  life.  A  road  and  some  fences  broke  the  un¬ 
varying  waste,  and  the  line  of  the  road  was 
marked  by  upright  pillars,  to  serve  in  time  of 
snow. 

Why  any  one  should  desire  to  visit  either  Luc 
or  Cheylard  is  more  than  my  much-inventing  spirit 
can  suppose.  For  my  part,  I  travel  not  to  go 
anywhere,  but  to  go.  I  travel  for  travel’s  sake. 
The  great  affair  is  to  move ;  to  feel  the  needs  and 
hitches  of  our  life  more  nearly;  to  come  down 
off  this  feather-bed  of  civilisation,  and  find  the 
globe  granite  underfoot  and  strewn  with  cutting 


64  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

flints.  Alas,  as  we  get  up  in  life,  and  are  more 
preoccupied  with  our  affairs,  even  a  holiday  is  a 
thing  that  must  be  worked  for.  To  hold  a  pack 
upon  a  pack-saddle  against  a  gale  out  of  the 
freezing  north  is  no  high  industry,  but  it  is  one 
that  serves  to  occupy  and  compose  the  mind.  And 
when  the  present  is  so  exacting,  who  can  annoy 
himself  about  the  future? 

I  came  out  at  length  above  the  Allier.  A  more 
unsightly  prospect  at  this  season  of  the  year  it 
would  be  hard  to  fancy.  Shelving  hills  rose  round 
it  on  all  sides,  here  dabbled  with  wood  and  fields, 
there  rising  to  peaks  alternately  naked  and  hairy 
with  pines.  The  colour  throughout  was  black  or 
ashen,  and  came  to  a  point  in  the  ruins  of  the 
castle  of  Luc,  which  pricked  up  impudently  from 
below  my  feet,  carrying  on  a  pinnacle  a  tall  white 
statue  of  our  Lady,  which,  I  heard  with  interest, 
weighed  fifty  quintals,  and  was  to  be  dedicated 
on  the  6th  of  October.  Through  this  sorry  land¬ 
scape  trickled  the  Allier  and  a  tributary  of  nearly 
equal  size,  which  came  down  to  join  it  through  a 
broad  nude  valley  in  Vivarais.  The  weather  had 


UPPER  GEVAUDAN  65 

somewhat  lightened,  and  the  clouds  massed  in 
squadron;  but  the  fierce  wind  still  hunted  them 
through  heaven,  and  cast  great  ungainly  splashes 
of  shadow  and  sunlight  over  the  scene. 

Luc  itself  was  a  straggling  double  file  of  houses 
wedged  between  hill  and  river.  It  had  no  beauty, 
nor  was  there  any  notable  feature,  save  the  old 
castle  overhead  with  its  fifty  quintals  of  brand- 
new  Madonna.  But  the  inn  was  clean  and  large. 
The  kitchen,  with  its  two  box-beds  hung  with  clean 
check  curtains,  with  its  wide  stone  chimney,  its 
chimney-shelf  four  yards  long  and  garnished  with 
lanterns  and  religious  statuettes,  its  array  of  chests 
and  pair  of  ticking  clocks,  was  the  very  model  of 
what  a  kitchen  ought  to  be;  a  melodrama  kitchen, 
suitable  for  bandits  or  noblemen  in  disguise.  Nor 
was  the  scene  disgraced  by  the  landlady,  a  hand¬ 
some,  silent,  dark  old  woman,  clothed  and  hooded 
in  black  like  a  nun.  Even  the  public  bedroom  had 
a  character  of  its  own,  with  the  long  deal  tables 
and  benches,  where  fifty  might  have  dined,  set  out 
as  for  a  harvest-home,  and  the  three  box-beds 

along  the  wall.  In  one  of  these,  lying  on  straw 

5 


66  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

and  covered  with  a  pair  of  table-napkins,  did  I  do 
penance  all  night  long  in  goose-flesh  and  chattering 
teeth,  and  sigh  from  time  to  time  as  I  awakened 
for  my  sheepskin  sack  and  the  lee  of  some  great 
wood. 


OUR 

LADY  OF  THE  SNOWS 

“  I  behold 

The  House ,  the  Brotherhood  austere  — 

A  nd  what  am  /,  that  lam  here  ?” 

Matthew  Arnold. 

OUR  LADY  OF  THE  SNOWS 


FATHER  APOLLINARIS 

NEXT  morning  (Thursday,  26th  Septem¬ 
ber)  I  took  the  road  in  a  new  order. 
The  sack  was  no  longer  doubled,  but 
hung  at  full  length  across  the  saddle,  a  green 
sausage  six  feet  long  with  a  tuft  of  blue  wool 
hanging  out  of  either  end.  It  was  more  pictur¬ 
esque,  it  spared  the  donkey,  and,  as  I  began  to 
see,  it  would  insure  stability,  blow  high,  blow  low. 
But  it  was  not  without  a  pang  that  I  had  so  de¬ 
cided.  For  although  I  had  purchased  a  new  cord, 
and  made  all  as  fast  as  I  was  able,  I  was  yet 
jealously  uneasy  lest  the  flaps  should  tumble  out 
and  scatter  my  effects  along  the  line  of  march. 

My  way  lay  up  the  bald  valley  of  the  river, 
along  the  march  of  Vivarais  and  Gevaudan.  The 
hills  of  Gevaudan  on  the  right  were  a  little  more 
naked,  if  anything,  than  those  of  Vivarais  upon  the 


7o  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

left,  and  the  former  had  a  monopoly  of  a  low  dotty 
underwood  that  grew  thickly  in  the  gorges  and 
died  out  in  solitary  burrs  upon  the  shoulders  and 
the  summits.  Black  bricks  of  fir-wood  were  plas¬ 
tered  here  and  there  upon  both  sides,  and  here 
and  there  were  cultivated  fields.  A  railway  ran 
beside  the  river;  the  only  bit  of  railway  in 
Gevaudan,  although  there  are  many  proposals 
afoot  and  surveys  being  made,  and  even,  as  they 
tell  me,  a  station  standing  ready-built  in  Mende. 
A  year  or  two  hence  and  this  may  be  another 
world.  The  desert  is  beleaguered.  Now  may 
some  Languedocian  Wordsworth  turn  the  sonnet 
into  patois :  “  Mountains  and  vales  and  floods, 
heard  ye  that  whistle?  ” 

At  a  place  called  La  Bastide  I  was  directed  to 
leave  the  river,  and  follow  a  road  that  mounted 
on  the  left  among  the  hills  of  Vivarais,  the 
modern  Ardeche;  for  I  was  now  come  within  a 
little  way  of  my  strange  destination,  the  Trap- 
pist  monastery  of  our  Lady  of  the  Snows.  The 
sun  came  out  as  I  left  the  shelter  of  a  pine-wood, 
and  I  beheld  suddenly  a  fine  wild  landscape  to  the 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  SNOWS  71 

south.  High  rocky  hills,  as  blue  as  sapphire, 
closed  the  view,  and  between  these  lay  ridge  upon 
ridge,  heathery,  craggy,  the  sun  glittering  on  veins 
of  rock,  the  underwood  clambering  in  the  hollows, 
as  rude  as  God  made  them  at  the  first.  There  was 
not  a  sign  of  man’s  hand  in  all  the  prospect;  and 
indeed  not  a  trace  of  his  passage,  save  where  gen¬ 
eration  after  generation  had  walked  in  twisted 
foot-paths,  in  and  out  among  the  beeches,  and  up 
and  down  upon  the  channelled  slopes.  The  mists, 
which  had  hitherto  beset  me,  were  now  broken 
into  clouds,  and  fled  swiftly  and  shone  brightly 
in  the  sun.  I  drew  a  long  breath.  It  was  grate¬ 
ful  to  come,  after  so  long,  upon  a  scene  of  some 
attraction  for  the  human  heart.  I  own  I  like 
definite  form  in  what  my  eyes  are  to  rest  upon; 
and  if  landscapes  were  sold,  like  the  sheets  of 
characters  of  my  boyhood,  one  penny  plain  and 
twopence  coloured,  I  should  go  the  length  of  two¬ 
pence  every  day  of  my  life. 

But  if  things  had  grown  better  to  the  south,  it 
was  still  desolate  and  inclement  near  at  hand.  A 
spidery  cross  on  every  hill-top  marked  the  neigh- 


72  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

bourhood  of  a  religious  house;  and  a  quarter  of - 
a  mile  beyond,  the  outlook  southward  opening  out 
and  growing  bolder  with  every  step,  a  white  statue 
of  the  Virgin  at  the  corner  of  a  young  plantation 
directed  the  traveller  to  our  Lady  of  the  Snows. 
Here,  then,  I  struck  leftward,  and  pursued  my 
way,  driving  my  secular  donkey  before  me,  and 
creaking  in  my  secular  boots  and  gaiters,  towards 
the  asylum  of  silence. 

I  had  not  gone  very  far  ere  the  wind  brought 
to  me  the  clanging  of  a  bell,  and  somehow,  I  can 
scarce  tell  why,  my  heart  sank  within  me  at  the 
sound.  I  have  rarely  approached  anything  with 
more  unaffected  terror  than  the  monastery  of  our 
Lady  of  the  Snows.  This  it  is  to  have  had  a 
Protestant  education.  And  suddenly,  on  turning 
a  corner,  fear  took  hold  on  me  from  head  to  foot 
—  slavish  superstitious  fear;  and  though  I  did 
not  stop  in  my  advance,  yet  I  went  on  slowly, 
like  a  man  who  should  have  passed  a  bourne  un¬ 
noticed,  and  strayed  into  the  country  of  the  dead. 
For  there  upon  the  narrow  new-made  road,  be¬ 
tween  the  stripling  pines,  was  a  mediaeval  friar, 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  SNOWS 


73 

fighting  with  a  barrowful  of  turfs.  Every  Sunday 
of  my  childhood  I  used  to  study  the  Hermits  of 
Marco  Sadeler  —  enchanting  prints,  full  of  wood 
and  field  and  mediaeval  landscapes,  as  large  as  a 
county,  for  the  imagination  to  go  a-travelling  in ; 
and  here,  sure  enough,  was  one  of  Marco  Sadeler’s 
heroes.  He  was  robed  in  white  like  any  spectre, 
and  the  hood  falling  back,  in  the  instancy  of  his 
contention  with  the  barrow,  disclosed  a  pate  as 

bald  and  yellow  as  a  skull.  He  might  have  been 

» 

buried  any  time  these  thousand  years,  and  all  the 
lively  parts  of  him  resolved  into  earth  and  broken 
up  with  the  farmer's  harrow. 

I  was  troubled  besides  in  my  mind  as  to  eti¬ 
quette.  Durst  I  address  a  person  who  was  under 
a  vow  of  silence?  Clearly  not.  But  drawing  near, 
I  doffed  my  cap  to  him  with  a  far-away  supersti¬ 
tious  reverence.  He  nodded  back,  and  cheerfully 
addressed  me.  Was  I  going  to  the  monastery? 
Who  was  I  ?  An  Englishman  ?  Ah,  an  Irish¬ 
man,  then? 

“  No,”  I  said,  “  a  Scotsman.” 

A  Scotsman?  Ah,  he  had  never  seen  a  Scots- 


74  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

man  before.  And  he  looked  me  all  over,  his  good, 
honest,  brawny  countenance  shining  with  interest, 
as  a  boy  might  look  upon  a  lion  or  an  alligator. 
From  him  I  learned  with  disgust  that  I  could  not 
be  received  at  our  Lady  of  the  Snows;  I  might 
get  a  meal,  perhaps,  but  that  was  all.  And  then, 
as  our  talk  ran  on,  and  it  turned  out  that  I  was 
not  a  pedlar,  but  a  literary  man,  who  drew  land¬ 
scapes  and  was  going  to  write  a  book,  he  changed 
his  manner  of  thinking  as  to  my  reception  (for 
I  fear  they  respect  persons  even  in  a  Trappist  mon¬ 
astery),  and  told  me  I  must  be  sure  to  ask  for 
the  Father  Prior,  and  state  my  case  to  him  in 
full.  On  second  thoughts  he  determined  to  go 
down  with  me  himself ;  he  thought  he  could  man¬ 
age  for  me  better.  Might  he  say  that  I  was  a 
geographer  ? 

No;  I  thought,  in  the  interests  of  truth,  he 
positively  might  not. 

“  Very  well,  then  ”  (with  disappointment),  “  an 
author.” 

It  appeared  lie' had  been  in  a  seminary  with  six 
young  Irishmen,  all  priests  long  since,  who  had 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  SNOWS  75 

received  newspapers  and  kept  him  informed  of 
the  state  of  ecclesiastical  affairs  in  England.  And 
he  asked  me  eagerly  after  Dr.  Pusey,  for  whose 
conversion  the  good  man  had  continued  ever  since 
to  pray  night  and  morning. 

“  I  thought  he  was  very  near  the  truth,”  he 
said ;  “  and  he  will  reach  it  yet ;  there  is  so  much 
virtue  in  prayer.” 

He  must  be  a  stiff  ungodly  Protestant  who  can 
take  anything  but  pleasure  in  this  kind  and  hope¬ 
ful  story.  While  he  was  thus  near  the  subject, 
the  good  father  asked  me  if  I  were  a  Christian; 
and  when  he  found  I  was  not,  or  not  after  his 
way,  he  glossed  it  over  with  great  good-will. 

•  The  road  which  we  were  following,  and  which 
this  stalwart  father  had  made  with  his  own  two 
hands  within  the  space  of  a  year,  came  to  a  corner, 
and  showed  us  some  white  buildings  a  little  further 
on  beyond  the  wood.  At  the  same  time,  the  bell 
once  more  sounded  abroad.  We  were  hard  upon 
the  monastery.  Father  Apollinaris  (for  that  was 
my  companion’s  name)  stopped  me. 

“  I  must  not  speak  to  you  down  there,”  he  said. 


76  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

“  Ask  for  the  Brother  Porter,  and  all  will  be  well. 
But  try  to  see  me  as  you  go  out  again  through 
the  wood,  where  I  may  speak  to  you.  I  am 
charmed  to  have  made  your  acquaintance.” 

And  then  suddenly  raising  his  arms,  flapping  his 
fingers,  and  crying  out  twice,  “  I  must  not  speak, 
I  must  not  speak!  ”  he  ran  away  in  front  of  me, 
and  disappeared  into  the  monastery-door. 

I  own  this  somewhat  ghastly  eccentricity  went 
a  good  way  to  revive  my  terrors.  But  where  one 
was  so  good  and  simple,  why  should  not  all  be 
alike?  I  took  heart  of  grace,  and  went  forward 
.to  the  gate  as  fast  as  Modestine,  who  seemed  to 
have  a  disaffection  for  monasteries,  would  permit. 
It  was  the  first  door,  in  my  acquaintance  of  her, 
which  she  had  not  shown  an  indecent  haste  to 
enter.  I  summoned  the  place  in  form,  though 
with  a  quaking  heart.  Father  Michael,  the  Father 
Hospitaller,  and  a  pair  of  brown-robed  brothers 
came  to  the  gate  and  spoke  with  me  awhile.  I 
think  my  sack  was  the  great  attraction;  it  had 
already  beguiled  the  heart  of  'poor  Apollinaris, 
who  had  charged  me  on  my  life  to  show  it  to  the 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  SNOWS  77 

Father  Prior.  But  whether  it  was  my  address,  or 
the  sack,  or  the  idea  speedily  published  among 
that  part  of  the  brotherhood  who  attend  on  stran¬ 
gers  that  I  was  not  a  pedlar  after  all,  I  found 
no  difficulty  as  to  my  reception.  Modestine  was 
led  away  by  a  layman  to  the  stables,  and  I  and 
my  pack  were  received  into  our  Lady  of  the 
Snows. 


THE  MONKS 


FATHER  MICHAEL,  a  pleasant,  fresh- 
faced,  smiling  man,  perhaps  of  thirty-five, 
took  me  to  the  pantry,  and  gave  me  a 
glass  of  liqueur  to  stay  me  until  dinner.  We 
had  some  talk,  or  rather  I  should  say  he  listened 
to  my  prattle  indulgently  enough,  but  with  an  ab¬ 
stracted  air,  like  a  spirit  with  a  thing  of  clay.  And 
truly  when  I  remember  that  I  descanted  princi¬ 
pally  on  my  appetite,  and  that  it  must  have  been 
by  that  time  more  than  eighteen  hours  since  Father 
Michael  had  so  much  as  broken  bread,  I  can  well 
understand  that  he  would  find  an  earthly  savour 
in  my  conversation.  But  his  manner,  though 
superior,  was  exquisitely  gracious;  and  I  find  I 
have  a  lurking  curiosity  as  to  Father  Michael’s 
past. 

The  whet  administered,  I  was  left  alone  for  a 
little  in  the  monastery  garden.  This  is  no  more 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  SNOWS  79 

than  the  main  court,  laid  out  in  sandy  paths  and 
beds  of  party-coloured  dahlias,  and  with  a  foun- 
tain  and  a  black  statue  of  the  Virgin  in  the 
centre.  The  buildings  stand  around  it  four-square, 
bleak,  as  yet  unseasoned  by  the  years  and  weather, 
and  with  no  other  features  than  a  belfry  and  a 
pair  of  slated  gables.  Brothers  in  white,  brothers 
in  brown,  passed  silently  along  the  sanded  alleys; 
and  when  I  first  came  out,  three  hooded  monks 
were  kneeling  on  the  terrace  at  their  prayers.  A 
naked  hill  commands  the  monastery  upon  one  side, 
and  the  wood  commands  it  on  the  other.  It  lies 

* 

exposed  to  wind;  the  snow  falls  off  and  on  from 
October  to  May,  and  sometimes  lies  six  weeks  on 
end;  but  if  they  stood  in  Eden,  with  a  climate 
like  heaven’s,  the  buildings  themselves  would  offer 
the  same  wintry  and  cheerless  aspect ;  and  for 
my  part,  on  this  wild  September  day,  before  I 
was  called  to  dinner,  I  felt  chilly  in  and  out. 

When  I  had  eaten  well  and  heartily,  Brother 
Ambrose,  a  hearty  conversable  Frenchman  (for 
all  those  who  wait  on  strangers  have  the  liberty 
to  speak),  led  me  to  a  little  room  in  that  part  of 


8o  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 


the  building  which  is  set  apart  for  MM.  les  re¬ 
trait  ants.  It  was  clean  and  whitewashed,  and 
furnished  with  strict  necessaries,  a  crucifix,  a  bust 
of  the  late  Pope,  the  Imitation  in  French,  a  book 
of  religious  meditations,  and  the  Life  of  Elizabeth 
Seton,  evangelist,  if  would  appear,  of  North 
America  and  of  New  England  in  particular.  As 
far  as  my  experience  goes,  there  is  a  fair  field 
for  some  more  evangelisation  in  these  quarters; 
but  think  of  Cotton  Mather !  I  should  like  to 
give  him  a  reading  of  this  little  work  in  heaven, 
where  I  hope  he  dwells;  but  perhaps  he  knows 
all  that  already,  and  much  more;  and  perhaps 
he  and  Mrs.  Seton  are  the  dearest  friends,  and 
gladly  unite  their  voices  in  the  everlasting  psalm. 
Over  the  table,  to  conclude  the  inventory  of  the 
room,  hung  a  set  of  regulations  for  MM.  les  re- 

9 

traitants:  what  services  they  should  attend,  when 
they  were  to  tell  their  beads  or  meditate,  and 
when  they  were  to  rise  and  go  to  rest.  At  the 
foot  was  a  notable  N.  B. :  “  Le  temps  libre  est  em¬ 
ploye  a  Vexamen  dc  conscience ,  a  la  confession , 
a  fairc  de  bonnes  resolutions ,”  etc.  To  make  good 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  SNOWS  81 

resolutions,  indeed!  You  might  talk  as  fruitfully 
of  making  the  hair  grow  on  your  head. 

I  had  scarce  explored  my  niche  when  Brother 
Ambrose  returned.  An  English  boarder,  it  ap¬ 
peared,  would  like  to  speak  with  me.  I  professed 
my  willingness,  and  the  friar  ushered  in  a  fresh, 
young  little  Irishman  of  fifty,  a  deacon  of  the 
Church,  arrayed  in  strict  canonicals,  and  wearing 

on  his  head  what,  in  default  of  knowledge,  I  can 

* 

only  call  the  ecclesiastical  shako.  He  had  lived 
seven  years  in  retreat  at  a  convent  of  nuns  in  Bel¬ 
gium,  and  now  five  at  our  Lady  of  the  Snows ;  he 
never  saw  an  English  newspaper;  he  spoke  French 
imperfectly,  and  had  he  spoken  it  like  a  native, 
there  was  not  much  chance  of  conversation  where 
he  dwelt.  With  this,  he  was  a  man  eminently 
sociable,  greedy  of  news,  and  simple-minded  like 
a  child.  If  I  was  pleased  to  have  a  guide  about 
the  monastery,  he  was  no  less  delighted  to  see  an 
English  face  and  hear  an  English  tongue. 

He  showed  me  his  own  room,  where  he  passed 
his  time  among  breviaries,  Hebrew  bibles,  and  the 

Waverley  novels.  Thence  he  led  me  to  the  clois- 

6 


82  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

ters,  into  the  chapter-house,  through  the  vestry, 
where  the  brothers’  gowns  and  broad  straw  hats 
were  hanging  up,  each  with  his  religious  name 
upon  a  board,  —  names  full  of  legendary  suavity 
and  interest,  such  as  Basil,  Hilarion,  Raphael,  or 
Pacifique ;  into  the  library,  where  were  all  the 
works  of  Veuillot  and  Chateaubriand,  and  the 
Odes  et  Ballades,  if  you  please,  and  even  Moliere, 
to  say  nothing  of  innumerable  fathers  and  a  great 
variety  of  local  and  general  historians.  Thence 
my  good  Irishman  took  me  round  the  workshops, 

where  brothers  bake  bread,  and  make  cart-wheels, 

\ 

and  take  photographs;  where  one  superintends  a 
collection  of  curiosities,  and  another  a  gallery  of 
rabbits.  For  in  a  Trappist  monastery  each  monk 
has  an  occupation  of  his  own  choice,  apart  from 
his  religious  duties  and  the  general  labours  of  the 
house.  Each  must  sing  in  the  choir,  if  he  has  a 
voice  and  ear,  and  join  in  the  haymaking  if  he  has 
a  hand  to  stir ;  but  in  his  private  hours,  although 
he  must  be  occupied,  he  may  be  occupied  on  what 
he  likes.  Thus  I  was  told  that  one  brother  was 
engaged  with  literature ;  while  Father  Apollinaris 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  SNOWS  83 

busies  himself  in  making  roads,  and  the  Abbot 
employs  himself  in  binding  books.  It  is  not  so 
long  since  this  Abbot  was  consecrated,  by  the  way ; 
and  on  that  occasion,  by  a  special  grace,  his  mother 
was  permitted  to  enter  the  chapel  and  witness  the 
ceremony  of  consecration.  A  proud  day  for  her 
to  have  a  son  a  mitred  abbot;  it  makes  you  glad 
to  think  they  let  her  in. 

In  all  these  journeyings  to  and  fro,  many  silent 
fathers  and  brethren  fell  in  our  way.  Usually  they 
paid  no  more  regard  to  our  passage  than  if  we 
had  been  a  cloud;  but  sometimes  the  good  deacon 
had  a  permission  to  ask  of  them,  and  it  was 
granted  by  a  peculiar  movement  of  the  hands, 
almost  like  that  of  a  dog’s  paws  in  swimming,  or 
refused  by  the  usual  negative  signs,  and  in  either 
.case  with  lowered  eyelids  and  a  certain  air  of  con¬ 
trition,  as  of  a  man  who  was  steering  very  close 
to  evil. 

The  monks,  by  special  grace  of  their  Abbot, 
were  still  taking  two  meals  a  day;  but  it  was 
already  time  for  their  grand  fast,  which  begins 
somewhere  in  September  and  lasts  till  Easter,  and 


84  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

during  which  they  eat  but  once  in  the  twenty- 
four  hours,  and  that  at  two  in  the  afternoon, 
twelve  hours  after  they  have  begun  the  toil  and 
vigil  of  the  day.  Their  meals  are  scanty,  but  even 
of  these  they  eat  sparingly;  and  though  each  is 
allowed  a  small  carafe  of  wine,  many  refrain  from 
this  indulgence.  Without  doubt,  the  most  of  man¬ 
kind  grossly  overeat  themselves;  our  meals  serve 
not  only  for  support,  but  as  a  hearty  and  natural 
diversion  from  the  labour  of  life.  Although  excess 
may  be  hurtful,  I  should  have  thought  this  Trap- 
pist  regimen  defective.  And  I  am  astonished,  as 
.1  look  back,  at  the  freshness  of  face  and  cheerful¬ 
ness  of  manner  of  all  whom  I  beheld.  A  happier 
nor  a  healthier  company  I  should  scarce  suppose 
that  I  have  ever  seen.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  on 
this  bleak  upland,  and  with  the  incessant  occu¬ 
pation  of  the  monks,  life  is  of  an  uncertain  tenure, 
and  death  no  infrequent  visitor,  at  our  Lady  of  the 
Snows.  This,  at  least,  was  what  was  told  me. 
But  if  they  die  easily,  they  must  live  healthily  in 
the  meantime,  for  they  seemed  all  firm  of  flesh 
and  high  in  colour ;  and  the  only  morbid  sign  that 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  SNOWS  85 

I  could  observe,  an  unusual  brilliancy  of  eye,  was 

i 

one  that  served  rather  to  increase  the  general  im¬ 
pression  of  vivacity  and  strength. 

Those  with  whom  I  spoke  were  singularly 
sweet-tempered,  with  what  I  can  only  call  a  holy 
cheerfulness  in  air  and  conversation.  There  is  a 
note,  in  the  direction  to  visitors,  telling  them  not 
to  be  offended  at  the  curt  speech  of  those  who 
wait  upon  them,  since  it  is  proper  to  monks  to 
speak  little.  The  note  might  have  been  spared; 
to  a  man  the  hospitallers  were  all  brimming  with 
innocent  talk,  and,  in  my  experience  of  the  mon¬ 
astery,  it  was  easier  to  begin  than  to  break  off  a 
conversation.  With  the  exception  of  Father 
Michael,  who  was  a  man  of  the  world,  they  showed 
themselves  full  of  kind  and  healthy  interest  in  all 
sorts  of  subjects  —  in  politics,  in  voyages,  in  my 
sleeping-sack  —  and  not  without  a  certain  pleasure 
in  the  sound  of  their  own  voices. 

As  for  those  who  are  restricted  to  silence,  I  can 
only  wonder  how  they  bear  their  solemn  and 
cheerless  isolation.  And  yet,  apart  from  any  view 
of  mortification,  I  can  see  a  certain  policy,  not  only 


86  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

in  the  exclusion  of  women,  but  in  this  vow  of 
silence.  I  have  had  some  experience  of  lay  phal¬ 
ansteries,  of  an  artistic,  not  to  sav  a  bacchanalian, 
character ;  and  seen  more  than  one  association 
easily  formed,  and  yet  more  easily  dispersed.  With 
a  Cistercian  rule,  perhaps  they  might  have  lasted 
longer.  In  the  neighbourhood  of  women  it  is  but 
a  touch-and-go  association  that  can  be  formed 
among  defenceless  men ;  the  stronger  electricity 
is  sure  to  triumph ;  the  dreams  of  boyhood,  the 
schemes  of  youth,  are  abandoned  after  an  inter¬ 
view  of  ten  minutes,  and  the  arts  and  sciences,  and 
professional  male  jollity,  deserted  at  once  for  two 
sweet  eyes  and  a  caressing  accent.  And  next  after 
this,  the  tongue  is  the  great  divider. 

I  am  almost  ashamed  to  pursue  this  worldly 
criticism  of  a  religious  rule ;  but  there  is  yet  an¬ 
other  point  in  which  the  Trappist  order  appeals 
to  me  as  a  model  of  wisdom.  By  two  in  the 
morning  the  clapper  goes  upon  the  bell,  and  so  on, 
hour  by  hour,  and  sometimes  quarter  by  quarter, 
till  eight,  the  hour  of  rest;  so  infinitesimally  is 
the  day  divided  among  different  occupations.  The 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  SNOWS  87 

man  who  keeps  rabbits,  for  example,  hurries  from 
his  hutches  to  the  chapel,  the  chapter-room,  or  the 
refectory,  all  day  long :  every  hour  he  has  an  office 
to  sing,  a  duty  to  perform ;  from  two,  when  he 
rises  in  the  dark,  till  eight,  when  he  returns  to 
receive  the  comfortable  gift  of-  sleep,  he  is  upon 
his  feet  and  occupied  with  manifold  and  changing 
business.  I  know  many  persons,  worth  several 
thousands  in  the  year,  who  are  not  so  fortunate 
in  the  disposal  of  their  lives.  Into  how  many 
houses  would  not  the  note  of  the  monastery-bell, 
dividing  the  day  into  manageable  portions,  bring 
peace  of  mind  and  healthful  activity. of  body?  We 
speak  of  hardships,  but  the  true  hardship  is  to  be 
a  dull  fool,  and  permitted  to  mismanage  life  in 
our  own  dull  and  foolish  manner. 

From  this  point  of  view,  we  may  perhaps  better 
understand  the  monk’s  existence.  A  long  novi¬ 
tiate,  and  every  proof  of  constancy  of  mind  and 
strength  of  body  is  required  before  admission  to 
the  order;  but  I  could  not  find  that  many  were 
discouraged.  In  the  photographer’s  studio,  which 
figures  so  strangely  among  the  outbuildings,  my 


88  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

eye  was  attracted  by  the  portrait  of  a  young  fellow 
in  the  uniform  of  a  private  of  foot.  This  was 
one  of  the  novices,  who  came  of  the  age  for  ser¬ 
vice,  and  marched  and  drilled  and  mounted  guard 
for  the  proper  time  among  the  garrison  of  Algiers. 
Here  was  a  man  who  had  surely  seen  both  sides 
of  life  before  deciding;  yet  as  soon  as  he  was  set 
free  from  service  he  returned  to  finish  his  novitiate, 

This  austere  rule  entitles  a  man  to  heaven  as 
•  by  right.  When  the  Trappist  sickens,  he  quits  not 
his  habit;  he  lies  in  the  bed  of  death  as  he  has 
prayed  and  laboured  in  his  frugal  and  silent  exist¬ 
ence;  and  when  the  Liberator  comes,  at  the  very 
moment,  even  before  they  have  carried  him  in  his 
robe  to  lie  his  little  last  in  the  chapel  among  con¬ 
tinual  chantings,  joy-bells  break  forth,  as  if  for 
a  marriage,  from  the  slated  belfry,  and  proclaim 

f 

throughout  the  neighbourhood  that  another  soul 
has  gone  to  God. 

At  night,  under  the  conduct  of  my  kind  Irish¬ 
man,  I  took  my  place  in  the  gallery  to  hear  com¬ 
pline  and  Salve  Regina,  with  which  the  Cistercians 
bring  every  day  to  a  conclusion.  There  were  none 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  SNOWS  89 

of  those  circumstances  which  strike  the  Protestant 
as  childish  or  as  tawdry  in  the  public  offices  of 
Rome.  A  stern  simplicity,  heightened  by  the 
romance  of  the  surroundings,  spoke  directly  to  the 
heart.  I  recall  the  whitewashed  chapel,  the  hooded 
figures  in  the  choir,  the  lights  alternately  occluded 
and  revealed,  the  strong  manly  singing,  the  silence 
that  ensued,  the  sight  of  cowled  heads  bowed  in 
prayer,  and  then  the  clear  trenchant  beating  of  the 
bell,  breaking  in  to  show  that  the  last  office  was 
over  and  the  hour  of  sleep  had  come;  and  when 
I  remember,  I  am  not  surprised  that  I  made  my 
escape  into  the  court  with  somewhat  whirling  fan¬ 
cies,  and  stood  like  a  man  bewildered  in  the  windy 
starry  night. 

But  I  was  weary;  and  when  I  had  quieted  my 
spirits  with  Elizabeth  Seton’s  memoirs  —  a  dull 
work  —  the  cold  and  the  raving  of  the  wind 
among  the  pines  —  for  my  room  was  on  that  side 
of  the  monastery  which  adjoins  the  woods  —  dis¬ 
posed  me  readily  to  slumber.  I  was  wakened  at 
black  midnight,  as  it  seemed,  though  it  was  really 
two  in  the  morning,  by  the  first  stroke  upon  the 


9o  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

bell.  All  the  brothers  were  then  hurrying  to  the 
chapel;  the  dead  in  life,  at  this  untimely  hour, 
were  already  beginning  the  uncomforted  labours 
of  their  day.  The  dead  in  life  — 7  there  was  a  chill 
reflection.  And  the  words  of  a  French  song  came 
back  into  my  memory,  telling  of  the  best  of  our 

mixed  existence : 

“  Que  t’as  de  belles.filles, 

Girofle  ! 

Girofla ! 

Que  t’as  de  belles  filles, 

L'  Amour  les  comptera  !  ” 

And  I  blessed  God  that  I  was  free  to  wander,  free 
'  to  hope,  and  free  to  love. 


THE  BOARDERS 


BUT  there  was  another  side  to  my  residence 
at  our  Lady  of  the  Snows.  At  this  late 
season  there  were  not  many  boarders ;  and 
yet  I  was  not  alone  in  the  public  part  of  the  mon¬ 
astery.  This  itself  is  hard  by  the  gate,  with  a 
small  dining-room  on  the  ground  floor,  and  a 
whole  corridor  of  cells  similar  to  mine  up-stairs. 
I  have  stupidly  forgotten  the  board  for  a  regular 
r  e  trait  ant ;  but  it  was  somewhere  between  three 
and  five  francs  a  day,  and  I  think  most  probably 
the  first.  Chance  visitors  like  myself  might  give 
what  they  chose  as  a  free-will  offering,  but  nothing 
was  demanded.  I  may  mention  that  when  I  was 
going  away,  Father  Michael  refused  twenty  francs 
as  excessive.  I  explained  the  reasoning  which  led 
me  to  offer  him  so  much;  but  even  then,  from  a 
curious  point  of  honour,  he  would  not  accept  it 
with  his  own  hand.  “  I  have  no  right  to  refuse 


92  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

for  the  monastery/’  he  explained,  “  but  I  should 
prefer  if  you  would  give  it  to  one  of  the  brothers.” 

I  had  dined  alone,  because  I  arrived  late;  but 
at  supper  I  found  two  other  guests.  One  was  a 
country  parish  priest,  who  had  walked  over  that 
morning  from  the  seat  of  his  cure  near  Mende  to 
enjoy  four  days  of  solitude  and  prayer.  He  was 
a  grenadier  in  person,  with  the  hale  colour  and  cir¬ 
cular  wrinkles  of  a  peasant;  and  as  he  complained 
much  of  how  he  had  been  impeded  by  his  skirts 
upon  the  march,  I  have  a  vivid  fancy  portrait  of 
him,  striding  along,  upright,  big-boned,  with  kilted 
cassock,  through  the  bleak  hills  of  Gevaudan.  The 
other  was  a  short,  grizzling,  thick-set  man,  from 
forty-five  to  fifty,  dressed  in  tweed  with  a  knitted 
spencer,  and  the  red  ribbon  of  a  decoration  in  his 
buttonhole.  This  last  was  a  hard  person  to  classify. 
He  was  an  old  soldier,  who  had  seen  service  and 
risen  to  the  rank  of  commandant;  and  he  retained 
some  of  the  brisk  decisive  manners  of  the  camp. 
On  the  other  hand,  as  soon  as  his  resignation  was 
accepted,  he  had  come  to  our  Lady  of  the  Snows 
as  a  boarder,  and  after  a  brief  experience  of  its 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  SNOWS  93 

ways,  had  decided  to  remain  as  a  novice.  Already 
the  new  life  was  beginning  to  modify  his  appear¬ 
ance  ;  already  he  had  acquired  somewhat  of  the 
quiet  and  smiling  air  of  the  brethren ;  and  he  was 
as  yet  neither  an  officer  nor  a  Trappist,  but  partook 
of  the  character  of  each.  And  certainly  here  was 
a  man  in  an  interesting  nick  of  life.  Out  of  the 
noise  of  cannon  and  trumpets,  he  was  in  the  act 
of  passing  into  this  still  country  bordering  on  the 
grave,  where  men  sleep  nightly  in  their  grave- 
clothes,  and,  like  phantoms,  communicate  by 
signs. 

At  supper  we  talked  politics.  I  make  it  my 
business,  when  I  am  in  France,  to  preach  polit¬ 
ical  good-will  and  moderation,  and  to  dwell  on 
the  example  of  Poland,  much  as  some  alarmists 
in  England  dwell  on  the  example  of  Carthage. 
The  priest  and  the  Commandant  assured  me  of 
their  sympathy  with  all  I  said,  and  made  a  heavy 
sighing  over  the  bitterness  of  contemporary  feeling 

“  Why,  you  cannot  say  anything  to  a  man  with 
which  he  does  not  absolutely  agree,”  said  I,  “  but 
he  flies  up  at  you  in  a  temper.” 


94  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

They  both  declared  that  such  a  state  of  things 
was  antichristian. 

While  we  were  thus  agreeing,  what  should  my 
tongue  stumble  upon  but  a  word  in  praise  of 
Gambetta’s  moderation.  The  old  soldier’s  coun¬ 
tenance  was  instantly  suffused  with  blood;  with 
the  palms  of  his  hands  he  beat  the  table  like  a 
naughty  child. 

“ Comment ,  monsieur ?”  he  shouted.  “Com¬ 
ment?  Gambetta  moderate?  Will  you  dare  to 
justify  these  words?” 

But  the  priest  had  not  forgotten  the  tenor  of 
our  talk.  And  suddenly,  in  the  height  of  his 

#  i 

fury,  the  old  soldier  found  a  warning  look  di¬ 
rected  on  his  face;  the  absurdity  of  his  behaviour 
was  brought  home  to  him  in  a  flash;  and  the 
storm  came  to  an  abrupt  end,  without  another 
word. 

It  was  only  in  the  morning,  over  our  coffee 
(Friday,  September  27th),  that  this  couple  found 
out  I  was  a  heretic.  I  suppose  I  had  misled 
them  by  some  admiring  expressions  as  to  the 
monastic  life  around  us;  and  it  was  only  by  a 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  SNOWS  95 

♦ 

point-blank  question  that  the  truth  came  out.  I 
had  been  tolerantly  used,  both  by  simple  Father 
Apollinaris  and  astute  Father  Michael;  and  the 
good  Irish  deacon,  when  he  heard  of  my  reli¬ 
gious  weakness,  had  only  patted  me  upon  the 
shoulder  and  said,  “  You  must  he  a  Catholic  and 
come  to  heaven.”  But  I  was  now  among  a  dif¬ 
ferent  sect  of  orthodox.  These  two  men  were 
bitter  and  upright  and  narrow,  like  the  worst  of 
Scotsmen,  and  indeed,  upon  my  heart,  I  fancy 
they  were  worse.  The  priest  snorted  aloud  like 
a  battle-horse. 

"  Et  vous  pretendez  mourir  dans  cette  espece 
de  croyance  ?  ”  he  demanded ;  and  there  is  no 
type  used  by  mortal  printers  large  enough  to 
qualify  his  accent. 

I  humbly  indicated  that  I  had  no  design  of 
changing. 

But  he  could  not  away  with  such  a  monstrous 
attitude.  “  No,  no,”  he  cried;  “  you  must  change.  . 
You  have  come  here,  God  has  led  you  here,  and 
you  must  embrace  the  opportunity.” 

I  made  a  slip  in  policy;  I  appealed  to  the  family 


96  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

affections,  though  I  was  speaking  to  a  priest  and 
a  soldier,  two  classes  of  men  circumstantially  di¬ 
vorced  from  the  kind  and  homely  ties  of  life. 

“Your  father  and  mother?”  cried  the  priest. 
“Very  well;  you  will  convert  them  in  their  turn 
when  you  go  home.” 

I  think  I  see  my  father’s  face!  I  would  rather 
tackle  the  Gsetulian  lion  in  his  den  than  embark  on 
such  an  enterprise  against  the  family  theologian. 

But  now  the  hunt  was  up ;  priest  and  soldier 
were  in  full  cry  for  my  conversion ;  and  the 
Work  of  the  Propagation  of  the  Faith,  for  which 
the  people  of  Cheylard  subscribed  forty-eight  francs 
'  ten  centimes  during  1877,  was  being  gallantly  pur¬ 
sued  against  myself.  It  was  an  odd  but  most 
effective  proselytising.  They  never  sought  to 
convince  me  in  argument,  where  I  might  have 
attempted  some  defence;  but  took  it  for  granted 
that  I  was  both  ashamed  and  terrified  at  my 
position,  and  urged  me  solely  on  the  point  of 
time.  Now,  they  said,  when  God  had  led  me 
to  our  Lady  of  the  Snows,  now  was  the  appointed 
hour. 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  SNOWS  97 

“  Do  not  be  withheld  by  false  shame/’  observed 
the  priest,  for  my  encouragement. 

For  one  who  feels  very  similarly  to  all  sects 
of  religion,  and  who  has  never  been  able,  even 

for  a  moment,  to  weigh  seriously  the  merit  of 

* 

this  or  that  creed  on  the  eternal  side  of  things, 
however  much  he  may  see  to  praise  or  blame 
upon  the  secular  and  temporal  side,  the  situation 
thus  created  was  both  unfair  and  painful.  I  com¬ 
mitted  my  second  fault  in  tact,  and  tried  to  plead 
that  it  was  all  the  same  thing  in  the  end,  and  we 
were  all  drawing  near  by  different  sides  to  the 
same  kind  and  undiscriminating  Friend  and  Father. 
That,  as  it  seems  to  lay-spirits,  would  be  the  only 
gospel  worthy  of  the  name.  But  different  men 
think  differently;  and  this  revolutionary  aspira¬ 
tion  brought  down  the  priest  with  all  the  terrors 
of  the  law.  He  launched  into  harrowing  details  of 
hell.  The  damned,  he  said  —  on  the  authority 
of  a  little  book  which  he  had  read  not  a  week 
before,  and  which,  to  add  conviction  to  convic¬ 
tion,  he  had  fully  intended  to  bring  along  with 
him  in  his  pocket  —  were  to  occupy  the  same  at- 


98  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

titude  through  all  eternity  in  the  midst  of  dismal 
tortures.  And  as  he  thus  expatiated,  he  grew  in 
nobility  of  aspect  with  his  enthusiasm. 

As  a  result  the  pair  concluded  that  I  should 
seek  out  the  Prior,  since  the  Abbot  was  from 
home,  and  lay  my  case  immediately  before  him. 

“  C'est  mon  conseil  comme  ancien  militaire 
observed  the  Commandant ;  “  et  celui  de  monsieur 
comme  pretre” 

“  Oui ,”  added  the  cure,  sententiously  nodding; 
"  comme  ancien  militaire  —  et  comme  pretre.” 

At  this  moment,  whilst  I  was  somewhat  em¬ 
barrassed  how  to  answer,  in  came  one  of  the 
monks,  a  little  brown  fellow,  as  lively  as  a  grig, 
and  with  an  Italian  accent,  who  threw  himself  at 
once  into  the  contention,  but  in  a  milder  and 
more  persuasive  vein,  as  befitted  one  of  these 
pleasant  brethren.  Look  at  him,  he  said.  The 
rule  was  very  hard;  he  would  have  dearly  liked 
to  stay  in  his  own  country,  Italy  —  it  was  well 
known  how  beautiful  it  was,  the  beautiful  Italy; 
but  then  there  were  no  Trappists  in  Italy;  and 
he  had  a  soul  to  save;  and  here  he  was. 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  SNOWS  99 

I  am  afraid  I  must  be  at  bottom,  what  a  cheer¬ 
ful  Indian  critic  has  dubbed  me,  “  a  faddling 
hedonist”;  for  this  description  of  the  brother's 
motives  gave  me  somewhat  of  a  shock.  I  should 
have  preferred  to  think  he  had  chosen  the  life 
for  its  own  sake,  and  not  for  ulterior  purposes ; 
and  this  shows  how  profoundly*  I  was  out  of 
sympathy  with  these  good  Trappists,  even  when 
I  was  doing  my  best  to  sympathise.  But  to  the 
cure  the  argument  seemed  decisive. 

“  Hear  that!”  he  cried.  “And  I  have  seen  a 
marquis  here,  a  marquis,  a  marquis  ”  —  he  re¬ 
peated  the  holy  word  three  times  over  —  “and 
other  persons  high  in  society;  and  generals.  And 
here,  at  your  side,  is  this  gentleman,  who  has 
been  so  many  years  in  armies  —  decorated,  an 
old  warrior.  And  here  he  is,  ready  to  dedicate 
himself  to  God.” 

I  was  by  this  time  so  thoroughly  embarrassed 
that  I  pleaded  cold  feet,  and  made  my  escape 
from  the  apartment.  It  was  a  furious  windy 
morning,  with  a  sky  much  cleared,  and  long  and 
potent  intervals  of  sunshine ;  and  I  wandered  until 


ioo  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

dinner  in  the  wild  country  towards  the  east,  sorely 
staggered  and  beaten  upon  by  the  gale,  but  re¬ 
warded  with  some  striking  views. 

At  dinner  the  Work  of  the  Propagation  of  the 
Faith  was  recommenced,  and  on  this  occasion ‘still 
more  distastefully  to  me.  The  priest  asked  me 
many  questions  as  to  the  contemptible  faith  of  my 
fathers,  and  received  my  replies  with  a  kind  of 
ecclesiastical  titter. 

“Your  sect,”  he  said  once;  “for  I  think  you 
will  admit  it  would  be  doing  it  too  much  honour 
to  call  it  a  religion.” 

“  As  you  please,  monsieur/’  said  I.  “  La  parole 
est  a  vons .” 

At  length  I  grew  annoyed  beyond  endurance; 
and  although  he  was  on  his  own  ground,  and, 
what  is  more  to  the  purpose,  an  old  man,  and  so 
holding  a  claim  upon  my  toleration,  I  could  not 
avoid  a  protest  against  this  uncivil  usage.  He  was 
sadlv  discountenanced. 

“  I  assure  you,”  he  said,  “  I  have  no  inclination 
to  laugh  in  my  heart.  I  have  no  other  feeling  but 
interest  in  your  80111.“ 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  SNOWS  ioi 

And  there  ended  my  conversion.  Honest  man ! 
He  was  no  dangerous  deceiver;  but  a  country 
parson,  full  of  zeal  and  faith.  Long  may  he 
tread  Gevaudan  with  his  kilted  skirts  —  a  man 
strong  to  walk  and  strong  to  comfort  his  parish¬ 
ioners  in  death !  I  dare  say  he  would  beat  bravely 
through  a  snow-storm  where  his  duty  called  him ; 
and  it  is  not  always  the  most  faithful  believer 
who  makes  the  cunningest  apostle. 


UPPER  GEVAUDAN 


( continued ) 


“  The  bed  was  made ,  the  room  was  fit , 
By  punctual  eve  the  stars  were  lit  ; 

The  air  was  sweet ,  the  water  ran  ; 

No  need  was  there  for  maid  or  man , 
IV hen  we  put  up,  my  ass  and  /, 

At  God's  green  caravanserai 

Old  Play. 


■* 


I 


\ 


UPPER  GEVAUDAN 


(t continued ) 

ACROSS  THE  GOULET 


THE  wind  fell  during  dinner,  and  the  sky 
remained  clear;  so  it  was  under  better 
auspices  that  I  loaded  Modestine  before 
the  monastery-gate.  My  Irish  friend  accompanied 
me  so  far  on  the  way.  As  we  came  through  the 
wood,  there  was  Pere  Apollinaire  hauling  his  bar- 
row;  and  he  too  quitted  his  labours  to  go  with 
me  for  perhaps  a  hundred  yards,  holding  my  hand 
between  both  of  his  in  front  of  him.  I  parted 
first  from  one  and  then  from  the  other  with  un¬ 
feigned  regret,  but  yet  with  the  glee  of  the  trav¬ 
eller  who  shakes  off  the  dust  of  one  stage  before 
hurrying  forth  upon  another.  Then  Modestine 
and  I  mounted  the  course  of  the  Allier,  which 
here  led  us  back  into  Gevaudan  towards  its  sources 
in  the  forest  of  Mercoire.  It  was  but  an  incon- 


io 6  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 


siderable  burn  before  we  left  its  guidance.  Thence, 
over  a  hill,  our  way  lay  through  a  naked  plateau, 
until  we  reached  Chasserades  at  sundown. 

The  company  in  the  inn-kitchen  that  night  were 
all  men  employed  in  survey  for  one  of  the  pro¬ 
jected  railways.  They  were  intelligent  and  con¬ 
versable,  and  we  decided  the  future  of  France 
over  hot  wine,  until  the  state  of  the  clock  fright¬ 
ened  us  to  rest.  There  were  four  beds  in  the 
little  up-stairs  room;  and  we  slept  six.  But  I 
had  a  bed  to  myself,  and  persuaded  them  to  leave 
the  window  open. 

“  He,  bourgeois ;  il  est  cinq  heures!"  was  the 
cry  that  wakened  me  in  the  morning  (Saturday, 
September  28th).  The  room  was  full  of  a  trans¬ 
parent  darkness,  which  dimly  showed  me  the  other 
three  beds  and  the  five  different  nightcaps  on  the 
pillows.  But  out  of  the  window  the  dawn  was 
growing  ruddy  in  a  long  belt  over  the  hill-tops, 
and  day  was  about  to  flood  the  plateau.  The  hour 
was  inspiriting;  and  there  seemed  a  promise  of 
calm  weather,  which  was  perfectly  fulfilled.  I  was 
soon  under  way  with  Modestine.  The  road  lay 


UPPER  GEVAUDAN 


107 

for  awhile  over  the  plateau,  and  then  descended 
through  a  precipitous  village  into  the  valley  of 
the  Chassezac.  This  stream  ran  among  green 
meadows,  well  hidden  from  the  world  by  its  steep 
banks;  the  broom  was  in  flower,  and  here  and 
there  was  a  hamlet  sending  up  its  smoke. 

At  last  the  path  crossed  the  Chassezac  upon  a 
bridge,  and,  forsaking  this  deep  hollow,  set  itself  . 
to  cross  the  mountain  of  La  Goulet.  It  wound 
up  through  Lestampes  by  upland  fields  and  woods 
of  beech  and  birch,  and  with  every  corner  brought 
me  into  an  acquaintance  with  some  new  interest. 
Even  in  the  gully  of  the  Chassezac  my  ear  had 
been  struck  by  a  noise  like  that  of  a  great  bass 
bell  ringing  at  the  distance  of  many  miles;  but 
this,  as  I  continued  to  mount  and  draw  nearer  to 
it,  seemed  to  change  in  character,  and  I  found 
at  length  that  it  came  from  some  one  leading 
flocks  afield  to  the  note  of  a  rural  horn.  The 
narrow  street  of  Lestampes  stood  full  of  sheep, 
from  wall  to  wall  —  black  sheep  and  white,  bleat¬ 
ing  like  the  birds  in  spring,  and  each  one  accom¬ 
panying  himself  upon  the  sheep-bell  round  his 


io8  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 


neck.  It  made  a  pathetic  concert,  all  in  treble. 
A  little  higher,  and  I  passed  a  pair  of  men  in  a 
tree  with  pruning-hooks,  and  one  of  them  was 
singing  the  music  of  a  bourree.  Still  further,  and 
when  I  was  already  threading  the  birches,  the 
crowing  of  cocks  came  cheerfully  up  to  my  ears, 
and  along  with  that  the  voice  of  a  flute  discours¬ 
ing  a  deliberate  and  plaintive  air  from  one  of 
the  upland  villages.  I  pictured  to  myself  some 
grizzled,  apple-cheeked,  country  schoolmaster  flut¬ 
ing  in  his  bit  of  a  garden  in  the  clear  autumn  sun¬ 
shine.  All  these  beautiful  and  interesting  sounds 
-filled  my  heart  with  an  unwonted  expectation; 
and  it  appeared  to  me  that,  once  past  this  range 
which  I  was  mounting,  I  should  descend  into  the 
garden  of  the  world.  Nor  was  I  deceived,  for  I 
was  now  done  with  rains  and  winds  and  a  bleak 
country.  The  first  part  of  my  journey  ended  here; 
and  this  was  like  an  induction  of  sweet  sounds 
into  the  other  and  more  beautiful. 

There  are  other  degrees  of  feyness,  as  of  punish¬ 
ment,  besides  the  capital ;  and  I  was  now  led  by 
my  good  spirits  into  an  adventure  which  I  relate 


UPPER  GEVAUDAN 


109 

in  the  interest  of  future  donkey-drivers.  The  road 
zigzagged  so  widely  on  the  hillside  that  I  chose 
a  short  cut  by  map  and  compass,  and  struck 
through  the  dwarf  woods  to  catch  the  road  again 
upon  a  higher  level.  It  was  my  one  serious  con¬ 
flict  with  Modestine.  She  would  none  of  my  short 
cut ;  she  turned  in  my  face,  she  backed,  she  reared  ; 
she,  whom  I  had  hitherto  imagined  to  be  dumb, 
actually  brayed  with  a  loud  hoarse  flourish,  like  a 
cock  crowing  for  the  dawn.  I  plied  the  goad  with 
one  hand ;  with  the  other,  so  steep  was  the  ascent, 
I  had  to  hold  on  the  pack-saddle.  Half-a-dozen 
times  she  was  nearly  over  backwards  on  the  top 
of  me;  half-a-dozen  times,  from  sheer  weariness 
of  spirit,  I  was  nearly  giving  it  up,  and  leading 
her  down  again  to  follow  the  road.  But  I  took 
the  thing  as  a  wager,  and  fought  it  through.  I 
was  surprised,  as  I  went  on  my  way  again,  by  what 
appeared  to  be  chill  rain-drops  falling  on  my  hand, 
and  more  than  once  looked  up  in  wonder  at  the 
cloudless  sky.  But  it  was  only  sweat  which  came 
dropping  from  my  brow. 

Over  the  summit  of  the  Goulet  there  was  no 


no  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 


marked  road  —  only  upright  stones  posted  from 
space  to  space  to  guide  the  drovers.  The  turf 
underfoot  was  springy  and  well  scented.  I  had  no 
company  but  a  lark  or  two,  and  met  but  one 
bullock-cart  between  Lestampes  and  Bleymard.  In 
front  of  me  I  saw  a  shallow  valley,  and  beyond 
that  the  range  of  the  Lozere,  sparsely  wooded  and 
well  enough  modelled  in  the  flanks,  but  straight 
and  dull  in  outline.  There  was  scarce  a  sign  of 
culture ;  only  about  Bleymard,  the  white  high¬ 
road  from  Villefort  to  Mende  traversed  a  range 
of  meadows,  set  with  spiry  poplars,  and  sounding 
from  side  to  side  with  the  bells  of  flocks  and 
herds. 


A  NIGHT  AMONG  THE  PINES 


FROM  Blevmard  after  dinner,  although  it 
was  already  late,  I  set  out  to  scale  a  por¬ 
tion  of  the  Lozere.  An  ill-marked  stony 
drove-road  guided  me  forward ;  and  I  met  nearly 
half-a-dozen  bullock-carts  descending  from  the 
woods,  each  laden  with  a  whole  pine-tree  for  the 
winter’s  firing.  At  the  top  of  the  woods,  which 
do  not  climb  very  high  upon  this  cold  ridge,  I 
struck  leftward  by  a  path  among  the  pines,  until 
I  hit  on  a  dell  of  green  turf,  where  a  streamlet 
made  a  little  spout  over  some  stones  to  serve  me 
for  a  water-tap.  “  In  a  more  sacred  or  sequestered 
bower  —  nor  nymph  nor  faunus  haunted.”  The 
trees  were  not  old,  but  they  grew  thickly  round 
the  glade :  there  was  no  outlook,  except  north¬ 
eastward  upon  distant  hill-tops,  or  straight  upward 
to  the  sky;  and  the  encampment  felt  secure  and 
private  like  a  room.  By  the  time  I  had  made  my 


1 12  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

arrangements  and  fed  Modestine,  the  day  was 
already  beginning  to  decline.  I  buckled  myself 

i 

to  the  knees  into  my  sack  and  made  a  hearty  meal ; 
and  as  soon  as  the  sun  went  down,  I  pulled  my 
cap  over  my  eyes  and  fell  asleep. 

Night  is  a  dead  monotonous  period  under  a  roof ; 
but  in  the  open  world  it  passes  lightly,  with  its 
stars  and  dews  and  perfumes,  and  the  hours  are 
marked  by  changes  in  the  face  of  Nature.  What 
seems  a  kind  of  temporal  death  to  people  choked 
between  walls  and  curtains,  is  only  a  light  and 
living  slumber  to  the  man  who  sleeps  afield.  All 
night  long  he  can  hear  Nature  breathing  deeply 
and  freely ;  even  as  she  takes  her  rest  she  turns  and 
smiles ;  and  there  is  one  stirring  hour  unknown 
to  those  who  dwell  in  houses,  when  a  wakeful 
influence  goes  abroad  over  the  sleeping  hemi¬ 
sphere,  and  all  the  outdoor  world  are  on  their  feet. 
It  is  then  that  the  cock  first  crows,  not  this  time 
to  announce  the  dawn,  but  like  a  cheerful  watch¬ 
man  speeding  the  course  of  night.  Cattle  awake 
on  the  meadows;  sheep  break  their  fast  on  dewy 
hillsides,  and  change  to  a  new  lair  among  the 


UPPER  GEVAUDAN  113 

ferns;  and  houseless  men,  who  have  lain  down 
with  the  fowls,  open  their  dim  eyes  and  behold 
the  beauty  of  the  night. 

At  what  inaudible  summons,  at  what  gentle 
touch  of  Nature,  are  all  these  sleepers  thus  recalled 
in  the  same  hour  to  life?  Do  the  stars  rain  down 
an  influence,  or  do  we  share  some  thrill  of  mother 
earth  below  our  resting  bodies?  Even  shepherds 
and  old  countryfolk,  who  are  the  deepest  read  in 
these  arcana,  have  not  a  guess  as  to  the  means  or 
purpose  of  this  nightly  resurrection.  Towards 
two  in  the  morning  they  declare  the  thing  takes 
place ;  and  neither  know  nor  inquire  further.  And 
at  least  it  is  a  pleasant  incident.  We  are  disturbed 
in  our  slumber  only,  like  the  luxurious  Montaigne, 
“that  we  may  the  better  and  more  sensibly  relish 
it.”  We  have  a  moment  to  look  upon  the  stars, 
and  there  is  a  special  pleasure  for  some  minds  in 
the  reflection  that  we  share  the  impulse  with  all 
outdoor  creatures  in  our  neighbourhood,  that  we 
have  escaped  out  of  the  Bastille  of  civilisation,  and 
are  become,  for  the  time  being,  a  mere  kindly 
animal  and  a  sheep  of  Nature's  flock. 


1 14  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

When  that  hour  came  to  me  among  the  pines, 
I  wakened  thirsty.  My  tin  was  standing  by  me 
half  full  of  water.  I  emptied  it  at  a  draught ;  and 
feeling  broad  awake  after  this  internal  cold  asper¬ 
sion,  sat  upright  to  make  a  cigarette.  The  stars 
were  clear,  coloured,  and  jewel-like,  but  not  frosty. 
A  faint  silvery  vapour  stood  for  the  Milky  Way. 
All  around  me  the  black  fir-points  stood  upright 
and  stock-still.  By  the  whiteness  of  the  pack- 
saddle,  I  could  see  Modestine  walking  round  and 
round  at  the  length  of  her  tether ;  I  could  hear  her 
steadily  munching  at  the  sward ;  but  there  was  not 
another  sound,  save  the  indescribable  quiet  talk 
'  of  the  runnel  over  the  stones.  I  lay  lazily  smoking 
and  studying  the  colour  of  the  sky,  as  we  call  the 
void  of  space,  from  where  it  showed  a  reddish  grey 
behind  the  pines  to  where  it  showed  a  glossy  blue- 
black  between  the  stars.  As  if  to  be  more  like  a 
pedlar,  I  wear  a  silver  ring.  This  I  could  see 
faintly  shining  as  I  raised  or  lowered  the  cigarette ; 
and  at  each  whiff  the  inside  of  my  hand  was  illu¬ 
minated,  and  became  for  a  second  the  highest  light 
in  the  landscape. 


UPPER  GEVAUDAN  115 

A  faint  wind,  more  like  a  moving  coolness  than 
a  stream  of  air,  passed  down  the  glade  from  time 
to  time;  so  that  even  in  my  great  chamber  the  air 
was  being  renewed  all  night  long.  I  thought  with 
horror  of  the  inn  at  Chasserades  and  the  con¬ 
gregated  nightcaps ;  with  horror  of  the  nocturnal 
prowesses  of  clerks  and  students,  of  hot  theatres 
and  pass-keys  and  close  rooms.  I  have  not  often 
enjoyed  a  more  serene  possession  of  myself,  nor 
felt  more  independent  of  material  aids.  The  outer 
world,  from  which  we  cower  into  our  houses, 
seemed  after  all  a  gentle  habitable  place ;  and 
night  after  night  a  man’s  bed,  it  seemed,  was  laid 
and  waiting  for  him  in  the  fields,  where  God  keeps 
an  open  house.  I  thought  I  had  re-discovered  one 
of  those  truths  which  are  revealed  to  savages  and 
hid  from  political  economists :  at  the  least,  I  had 
discovered  a  new  pleasure  for  myself.  And  yet 
even  while  I  was  exulting  in  my  solitude  I  became 
aware  of  a  strange  lack.  I  wished  a  companion 
to  lie  near  me  in  the  starlight,  silent  and  not  mov¬ 
ing,  but  ever  within  touch.  For  there  is  a  fellow¬ 
ship  more  quiet  even  than  solitude,  and  which, 


ii 6  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

rightly  understood,  is  solitude  made  perfect.  And 
to  live  out  of  doors  with  the  woman  a  man  loves 
is  of  all  lives  the  most  complete  and  free. 

As  I  thus  lay,  between  content  and  longing,  a 
faint  noise  stole  towards  me  through  the  pines. 
I  thought,  at  first,  it  was  the  crowing  of  cocks 
or  the  barking  of  dogs  at  some  very  distant  farm ; 
but  steadily  and  gradually  it  took  articulate  shape 
in  my  ears,  until  I  became  aware  that  a  passenger 
was  going  by  upon  the  highroad  in  the  valley,  and 
singing  loudly  as  he  went.  There  was  more  of 
good-will  than  grace  in  his  performance;  but  he 
,  trolled  with  ample  lungs ;  and  the  sound  of  his 
voice  took  hold  upon  the  hillside  and  set  the  air 
shaking  in  the  leafy  glens.  I  have  heard  people 
passing  by  night  in  sleeping  cities ;  some  of  them 
sang;  one,  I  remember,  played  loudly  on  the  bag¬ 
pipes.  I  have  heard  the  rattle  of  a  cart  or  carriage 
spring  up  suddenly  after  hours  of  stillness,  and 
pass,  for  some  minutes,  within  the  range  of  my 
hearing  as  I  lay  abed.  There  is  a  romance  about 
all  who  are  abroad  in  the  black  hours,  and  with 
something  of  a  thrill  we  try  to  guess  their  business. 


UPPER  GEVAUDAN  117 

But  here  the  romance  was  double :  first,  this  glad 
passenger,  lit  internally  with  wine,  who  sent  up  his 
voice  in  music  through  the  night ;  and  then  I,  on 
the  other  hand,  buckled  into  my  sack,  and  smoking 
alone  in  the  pine-woods  between  four  and  five 
thousand  feet  towards  the  stars. 

When  I  awoke  again  (Sunday,  29th  Septem¬ 
ber),  many  of  the  stars  had  disappeared;  only  the 
stronger  companions  of  the  night  still  burned  vis¬ 
ibly  overhead ;  and  away  towards  the  east  I  saw 
a  faint  haze  of  light  upon  the  horizon,  such  as  had 
been  the  Milky  Way  when  I  was  last  awake.  Day 
was  at  hand.  I  lit  my  lantern,  and  by  its  glow¬ 
worm  light  put  on  my  boots  and  gaiters;  then  I 
broke  up  some  bread  for  Modestine,  filled  my  can 
at  the  water-tap,  and  lit  my  spirit-lamp  to  boil 
myself  some  chocolate.  The  blue  darkness  lay 
long  in  the  glade  where  I  had  so  sweetly  slum¬ 
bered  ;  but  soon  there  was  a  broad  streak  of  orange 
melting  into  gold  along  the  mountain-tops  of 
Vivarais.  A  solemn  glee  possessed  my  mind  at 
this  gradual  and  lovely  coming  in  of  day.  I  heard 
the  runnel  with  delight ;  I  looked  round  me  for 


1 1 8  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

something  beautiful  and  unexpected;  but  the  still 
black  pine-trees,  the  hollow  glade,  the  munching 
ass,  remained  unchanged  in  figure.  Nothing  had 
altered  but  the  light,  and  that,  indeed,  shed  over 

all  a  spirit  of  life  and  of  breathing  peace,  and 

% 

moved  me  to  a  strange  exhilaration. 

I  drank  my  water  chocolate,  which  was  hot  if  it 
was  not  rich,  and  strolled  here  and  there,  and  up 
and  down  about  the  glade.  While  I  was  thus 
delaying,  a  gush  of  steady  wind,  as  long  as  a  heavy 
sigh,  poured  direct  out  of  the  quarter  of  the  morn¬ 
ing.  It  was  cold,  and  set  me  sneezing.  The  trees 
near  at  hand  tossed  their  black  plumes  in  its  pas¬ 
sage;  and  I  could  see  the  thin  distant  spires  of 
pine  along  the  edge  of  the  hill  rock  slightly  to 
and  fro  against  the  golden  east.  Ten  minutes 
after,  the  sunlight  spread  at  a  gallop  along  the 
hillside,  scattering  shadows  and  sparkles,  and  the 
day  had  come  completely. 

I  hastened  to  prepare  my  pack,  and  tackle  the 
steep  ascent  that  lay  before  me ;  but  I  had  some¬ 
thing  on  my  mind.  It  was  only  a  fancy ;  yet  a 
fancy  will  sometimes  be  importunate.  I  had  been 


UPPER  GEVAUDAN  119 

most  hospitably  received  and  punctually  served  in 
my  green  caravanserai.  The  room  was  airy,  the 
water  excellent,  and  the  dawn  had  called  me  to 
a  moment.  I  say  nothing  of  the  tapestries  or  the 
inimitable  ceiling,  nor  yet  of  the  view  which  I  com¬ 
manded  from  the  windows;  but  I  felt  I  was  in 
some  one’s  debt  for  all  this  liberal  entertainment. 
And  so  it  pleased  me,  in  a  half-laughing  way,  to 
leave  pieces  of  money  on  the  turf  as  I  went  along, 
until  I  had  left  enough  for  my  night's  lodging.  I 
trust  they  did  not  fall  to  some  rich  and  churlish 
drover. 


THE 

COUNTRY  OF  THE 
CAMISARDS 

“  We  travelled  in  the  print  of  olden  wars  ; 

Yet  all  the  land  was  green  ; 

A  nd  love  we  found ,  and  peace. 

Where  fire  and  war  had  been. 

They  pass  and  smile,  the  children  of  the  sword  — 
No  more  the  sword  they  wield  ; 

A  nd  0,  how  deep  the  corn 

A  long  the  battlefield !  ” 

W.  P.  Bannatyne. 

4 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  THE 
CAMISARDS 

ACROSS  THE  LOZERE 


THE  track  that  I  had  followed  in  the  even¬ 
ing  soon  died  out,  and  I  continued  to 
follow  over  a  bald  turf  ascent  a  row  of 
stone  pillars,  such  as  had  conducted  me  across  the 
Goulet.  It  was  already  warm.  I  tied  my  jacket 
on  the  pack,  and  walked  in  my  knitted  waistcoat. 
Modestine  herself  was  in  high  spirits,  and  broke 
of  her  own  accord,  for  the  first  time  in  my  ex¬ 
perience,  into  a  jolting  trot  that  sent  the  oats 
swashing  in  the  pocket  of  my  coat.  The  view, 
back  upon  the  northern  Gevaudan,  extended  with 
every  step;  scarce  a  tree,  scarce  a  house,  appeared 
upon  the  fields  of  wild  hill  that  ran  north,  east, 
and  west,  all  blue  and  gold  in  the  haze  and  sun¬ 
light  of  the  morning.  A  multitude  of  little  birds 
kept  sweeping  and  twittering  about  my  path ;  they 


I24  travels  with  a  donkey 

perched  on  the  stone  pillars,  they  pecked  and 
strutted  on  the  turf,  and  I  saw  them  circle  in 
volleys  in  the  blue  air,  and  show,  from  time  to 
time,  translucent  flickering  wings  between  the  sun 
and  me. 

Almost  from  the  first  moment  of  my  march,  a 
faint  large  noise,  like  a  distant  surf,  had  filled  my 
ears.  Sometimes  I  was  tempted  to  think  it  the 
voice  of  a  neighbouring  waterfall,  and  sometimes 
a  subjective  result  of  the  utter  stillness  of  the  hill. 
But  as  I  continued  to  advance,  the  noise  increased 
and  became  like  the  hissing  of  an  enormous  tea- 
urn,  and  at  the  same  time  breaths  of  cool  air 
began  to  reach  me  from  the  direction  of  the  sum¬ 
mit.  At  length  I  understood.  It  was  blowing 
stiffly  from  the  south  upon  the  other  slope  of  the 
Lozere,  and  every  step  that  I  took  I  was  drawing 
nearer  to  the  wind. 

Although  it  had  been  long  desired,  it  was  quite 
unexpectedly  at  last  that  my  eyes  rose  above  the 
summit.  A  step  that  seemed  no  way  more  deci¬ 
sive  than  many  other  steps  that  had  preceded  it 
—  and,  “  like  stout  Cortez  when,  with  eagle  eyes, 


THE  CAMISARDS 


I25 

lie  stared  on  the  Pacific/’  I  took  possession,  in 
my  own  name,  of  a  new  quarter  of  the  world. 
For  behold,  instead  of  the  gross  turf  rampart  I 
had  been  mounting  for  so  long,  a  view  into  the 
hazy  air  of  heaven,  and  a  land  of  intricate  blue 
hills  below  my  feet. 

The  Lozere  lies  nearly  east  and  west,  cutting 
Gevaudan  into  two  unequal  parts ;  its  highest  point, 
this  Pic  de  Finiels,  on  which  I  was  then  standing, 
rises  upwards  of  five  thousand  six  hundred  feet 
above  the  sea,  and  in  clear  weather  commands  a 
view  over  all  lower  Languedoc  to  the  Mediter¬ 
ranean  Sea.  I  have  spoken  with  people  who  either 
pretended  or  believed  that  they  had  seen,  from  the 
Pic  de  Finiels,  white  ships  sailing  by  Montpellier 
and  Cette.  Behind  was  the  upland  northern  coun¬ 
try  through  which  my  way  had  lain,  peopled  by 
a  dull  race,  without  wood,  without  much  grandeur 
of  hill-form,  and  famous  in  the  past  for  little  be¬ 
side  wolves.  But  in  front  of  me,  half  veiled  in 
sunny  haze,  lay  a  new  Gevaudan,  rich,  picturesque, 
illustrious  for  stirring  events.  Speaking  largely, 
I  was  in  the  Cevennes  at  Monastier,  and  during 


126  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

all  my  journey;  but  there  is  a  strict  and  local 
sense  in  which  only  this  confused  and  shaggy  coun¬ 
try  at  my  feet  has  any  title  to  the  name,  and  in 
this  sense  the  peasantry  employ  the  word.  These 
are  the  Cevennes  with  an  emphasis :  the  Cevennes 
of  the  Cevennes.  In  that  undecipherable  labyrinth 
of  hills,  a  war  of  bandits,  a  war  of  wild  beasts, 
raged  for  two  years  between  the  Grand  Monarch 
with  all  his  troops  and  marshals  on  the  one  hand, 
and  a  few  thousand  Protestant  mountaineers  upon 
the  other.  A  hundred  and  eighty  years  ago,  the 
Camisards  held  a  station  even  on  the  Lozere, 
where  I  stood ;  they  had  an  organisation,  arsenals, 
a  military  and  religious  hierarchy;  their  affairs 
were  “  the  discourse  of  every  coffee-house  ”  in 
London ;  England  sent  fleets  in  their  support ; 
their  leaders  prophesied  and  murdered ;  with 
colours  and  drums,  and  the  singing  of  old  French 
psalms,  their  bands  sometimes  affronted  daylight, 
marched  before  walled  cities,  and  dispersed  the 
generals  of  the  king;  and  sometimes  at  night,  or 
in  mascpierade,  possessed  themselves  of  strong 
castles,  and  avenged  treachery  upon  their  allies 


THE  CAMISARDS 


127 

and  cruelty  upon  their  foes.  There,  a  hundred 
and  eighty  years  ago,  was  the  chivalrous  Roland, 
“  Count  and  Lord  Roland,  generalissimo  of  the 
Protestants  in  France,”  grave,  silent,  imperious, 
pock-marked  ex-dragoon,  whom  a  lady  followed 
in  his  wanderings  out  of  love.  There  was  Cava¬ 
lier,  a  baker’s  apprentice  with  a  genius  for  war, 
elected  brigadier  of  Camisards  at  seventeen,  to 
die  at  fifty-five  the  English  governor  of  Jersey. 
There  again  was  Castanet,  a  partisan  leader  in  a 
voluminous  peruke  and  with  a  taste  for  contro¬ 
versial  divinity.  Strange  generals,  who  moved 
apart  to  take  counsel  with  the  God  of  Hosts,  and 
fled  or  offered  battle,  set  sentinels  or  slept  in  an 
unguarded  camp,  as  the  Spirit  whispered  to  their 
hearts !  And  there,  to  follow  these  and  other 
leaders,  was  the  rank  and  file  of  prophets  and  dis¬ 
ciples,  bold,  patient,  indefatigable,  hardy  to  run 
upon  the  mountains,  cheering  their  rough  life  with 
psalms,  eager  to  fight,  eager  to  pray,  listening 
devoutly  to  the  oracles  of  brain-sick  children,  and 
mystically  putting  a  grain  of  wheat  among  the  pew¬ 
ter  balls  with  which  they  charged  their  muskets. 


128  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 


I  had  travelled  hitherto  through  a  dull  district, 
and  in  the  track  of  nothing  more  notable  than  the 
child-eating  Beast  of  Gevaudan,  the  Napoleon 
Buonaparte  of  wolves.  But  now  I  was  to  go 
down  into  the  scene  of  a  romantic  chapter  —  or, 
better,  a  romantic  foot-note  —  in  the  history  of 
the  world.  What  was  left  of  all  this  by-gone  dust 
and  heroism?  I  was  told  that  Protestantism  still 
survived  in  this  head  seat  of  Protestant  resistance; 
so  much  the  priest  himself  had  told  me  in  the 
monastery  parlour.  But  I  had  yet  to  learn  if  it 
were  a  bare  survival,  or  a  lively  and  generous 
tradition.  Again,  if  in  the  northern  Cevennes  the 
people  are  narrow  in  religious  judgments,  and 
more  filled  with  zeal  than  charity,  what  was  I  to 
look  for  in  this  land  of  persecution  and  reprisal 
—  in  a  land  where  the  tyranny  of  the  Church 
produced  the  Camisard  rebellion,  and  the  terror 
of  the  Camisards  threw  the  Catholic  peasantry 
into  legalised  revolt  upon  the  other  side,  so  that 
Camisard  and  Florentin  skulked  for  each  other’s 
lives  among  the  mountains? 

Just  on  the  brow  of  the  hill,  where  I  paused  to 


THE  CAMISARDS 


1 29 


look  before  me,  the  series  of  stone  pillars  came 
abruptly  to  an  end;  and  only  a  little  below,  a 
sort  of  track  appeared  and  began  to  go  down  a 
breakneck  slope,  turning  like  a  corkscrew  as  it 
went.  It  led  into  a  valley  between  falling  hills, 
stubbly  with  rocks  like  a  reaped  field  of  corn,  and 
floored  further  down  with  green  meadows.  I  fol¬ 
lowed  the  track  with  precipitation;  the  steepness 
of  the  slope,  the  continual  agile  turning  of  the 
line  of  descent,  and  the  old  unwearied  hope  of 
finding  something  new  in  a  new  country,  all  con¬ 
spired  to  lend  me  wings.  Yet  a  little  lower  and 
a  stream  began,  collecting  itself  together  out  of 
many  fountains,  and  soon  making  a  glad  noise 
among  the  hills.  Sometimes  it  would  cross  the 
track  in  a  bit  of  waterfall,  with  a  pool,  in  which 
Modestine  refreshed  her  feet. 

The  whole  descent  is  like  a  dream  to  me,  so 

rapidly  was  it  accomplished.  I  had  scarcely  left 

the  summit  ere  the  valley  had  closed  round  my 

path,  and  the  sun  beat  upon  me,  walking  in  a 

stagnant  lowland  atmosphere.  The  track  became 

a  road,  and  went  up  and  down  in  easy  undula- 

9 


130  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

dons.*  I  passed  cabin  after  cabin,  but  all  seemed 

♦ 

deserted;  and  I  saw  not  a  human  creature,  nor 
heard  any  sound  except  that  of  the  s.tream.  I 
was,  however,  in  a  different  country  from  the 
day  before.  The  stony  skeleton  of  the  world  was 
here  vigorously  displayed  to  sun  and  air.  The 
slopes  were  steep  and  changeful.  Oak-trees  clung 
along  the  hills,  well  grown,  wealthy  in  leaf,  and 
touched  by  the  autumn  with  strong  and  luminous 
colours.  Here  and  there  another  stream  would 
fall  in  from  the  right  or  the  left,  down  a  gorge 
of  snow-white  and  tumultuary  boulders.  The 
river  in  the  bottom  (for  it  was  rapidly  growing 
a  river,  collecting  on  all  hands  as  it  trotted  on 
its  way)  here  foamed  awhile  in  -desperate  rapids, 
and  there  lay  in  pools  of  the  most  enchanting 
sea-green  shot  with  watery  browns.  As  far  as 
I  have  gone,  I  have  never  seen  a  river  of  so 
changeful  and  delicate  a  hue;  crystal  was  not 
more  clear,  the  meadows  were  not  by  half  so 
green;  and  at  every  pool  I  saw  I  felt  a  thrill  of 
longing  to  be  out  of  these  hot,  dusty,  and  mate¬ 
rial  garments,  and  bathe  my  naked  body  in  the 


THE  CAMISARDS 


l3l 

mountain  air  and  water.  All  the  time  as  I  went 
on  I  never  forgot  it  was  the  Sabbath;  the  still¬ 
ness  was  a  perpetual  reminder;  and  I  heard  in 
spirit  the  church-bells  clamouring  all  over  Europe, 
and  the  psalms  of  a  thousand  churches. 

At  length  a  human  sound  struck  upon  my  ear 
—  a  cry  strangely  modulated  between  pathos  and 
derision;  and  looking  across  the  valley,  I  saw  a 
little  urchin  sitting  in  a  meadow,  with  his  hands 
about  his  knees,  and  dwarfed  to  almost  comical 
smallness  by  the  distance.  But  the  rogue  had 
picked  me  out  as  I  went  down  the  road,  from 
oak-wood  on  to  oak-wood,  driving  Modestine; 
and  he  made  me  the  compliments  of  the  new 
country  in  this  tremulous  high-pitched  salutation. 
And  as  all  noises  are  lovely  and  natural  at  a  suf¬ 
ficient  distance,  this  also,  coming  through  so  much 
clean  hill  air  and  crossing  all  the  green  valley, 
sounded  pleasant  to  my  ear,  and  seemed  a  thing 
rustic,  like  the  oaks  or  the  river. 

A  little  after,  the  stream  that  I  was  following 
fell  into  the  Tarn,  at  Pont  de  Montvert  of  bloody 
memory. 


PONT  DE  MONTVERT 


ONE  of  the  first  things  I  encountered  in 
Pont  de  Montvert  was,  if  I  remember 
rightly,  the  Protestant  temple;  but  this 
was  but  the  type  of  other  novelties.  A  subtle 
atmosphere  distinguishes  a  town  in  England  from 
a  town  in  France,  or  even  in  Scotland.  At  Car¬ 
lisle  you  can  see  you  are  in  one  country;  at  Dum¬ 
fries,  thirty  miles  away,  you  are  as  sure  that  you 
are  in  the  other.  I  should  find  it  difficult  to  tell 
in  what  particulars  Pont  de  Montvert  differed  from 
Monastier  or  Langogne,  or  even  Bleymard;  but 
the  difference  existed,  and  spoke  eloquently  to  the 
eyes.  The  place,  with  its  houses,  its  lanes,  its 
glaring  river-bed,  wore  an  indescribable  air  of 
the  South. 

All  was  Sunday  bustle  in  the  streets  and  in  the 
public-house,  as  all  had  been  Sabbath  peace  among 
the  mountains.  There  must  have  been  near  a 
score  of  us  at  dinner  by  eleven  before  noon;  and 


THE  CAMISARDS 


l33 

after  I  had  eaten  and  drunken,  and  sat  writing 
up  my  journal,  I  suppose  as  many  more  came 
dropping  in  one  after  another,  or  by  twos  and 
threes.  In  crossing  the  Lozere  I  had  not  only 
come  among  new  natural  features,  but  moved  into 
the  territory  of  a  different  race.  These  people, 
as  they  hurriedly  despatched  their  viands  in  an 
intricate  sword-play  of  knives,  questioned  and 
answered  me  with  a  degree  of  intelligence  which 
excelled  all  that  I  had  met,  except  among  the 
railway  folk  at  Chasserades.  They  had  open  tell¬ 
ing  faces,  and  were  lively  both  in  speech  and 
manner.  They  not  only  entered  thoroughly  into 
the  spirit  of  my  little  trip,  but  more  than  one 
declared,  if  he  were  rich  enough,  he  would  like 
to  set  forth  on  such  another. 

Even  physically  there  was  a  pleasant  change. 
I  had  not  seen  a  pretty  woman  since  I  left  Monas- 
tier,  and  there  but  one.  Now  of  the  three  who 
sat  down  with  me  to  dinner,  one  was  certainly  not 
beautiful  —  a  poor  timid  thing  of  forty,  quite 
troubled  at  this  roaring  table  d'hote ,  whom  I 
squired  and  helped  to  wine,  and  pledged  and  tried 


134  travels  with  a  donkey 

generally  to  encourage,  with  quite  a  contrary  ef¬ 
fect;  but  the  other  two,  both  married,  were  both 
more  handsome  than  the  average  of  women.  And 
Clarisse?  What  shall  I  say  of  Clarisse?  She 
waited  the  table  with  a  heavy  placable  noncha¬ 
lance,  like  a  performing  cow ;  her  great  grey  eyes 
were  steeped  in  amorous  languor;  her  features, 
although  fleshy,  were  of  an  original  and  accurate 
design ;  her  mouth  had  a  curl ;  her  nostril  spoke 
of  dainty  pride;  her  cheek  fell  into  strange  and 
interesting  lines.  It  was  a  face  capable  of  strong 
emotion,  and,  with  training,  it  offered  the  prom- 
..  ise  of  delicate  sentiment.  It  seemed  pitiful  to  see 
so  good  a  model  left  to  country  admirers  and  a 
country  way  of  thought.  Beauty  should  at  least 
have  touched  society,  then,  in  a  moment,  it  throws 
off  a  weight  that  lay  upon  it,  it  becomes  conscious 
of  itself,  it  puts  on  an  elegance,  learns  a  gait  and 
a  carriage  of  the  head,  and,  in  a  moment,  patet 
dea.  Before  I  left  I  assured  Clarisse  of  my  hearty 
admiration.  She  took  it  like  milk,  without  em¬ 
barrassment  or  wonder,  merely  looking  at  me 
steadily  with  her  great  eyes;  and  I  own  the  re- 


THE  CAMISARDS 


suit  upon  myself  was  some  confusion.  If  Clarisse 
could  read  English,  I  should  not  dare  to  add  that 
her  figure  was  unworthy  of  her  face.  Hers  was 
a  case  for  stays ;  but  that  may  perhaps  grow 
better  as  she  gets  up  in  years. 

Pont  de  Montvert,  or  Greenhill  Bridge,  as  we 
might  say  at  home,  is  a  place  memorable  in  the 
story  of  the  CamisaYds.  It  was  here  that  the  war 
broke  out;  here  that  those  southern  Covenanters 
slew  their  Archbishop  Sharpe.  The  persecution 
on  the  one  hand,  the  febrile  enthusiasm  on  the 
other,  are  almost  equally  difficult  to  understand 
in  these  quiet  modern  days,  and  with  our  easy 
modern  beliefs  and  disbeliefs.  The  Protestants 
were  one  and  all  beside  their  right  minds  with  zeal 
and  sorrow.  They  were  all  prophets  and  prophet¬ 
esses.  Children  at  the  breast  would  exhort  their 
parents  to  good  works.  “  A  child  of  fifteen 
months  at  Quissac  spoke  from  its  mother’s  arms, 
agitated  and  sobbing,  distinctly  and  with  a  loud 
voice.”  Marshal  Villars  has  seen  a  town  where 

4 

all  the  women  “  seemed  possessed  by  the  devil,” 
and  had  trembling  fits,  and  uttered  prophecies  pub- 


136  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

licly  upon  the  streets.  A  prophetess  of  Vivarais 
was  hanged  at  Montpellier  because  blood  flowed 
from  her  eyes  and  nose,  and  she  declared  that  she 
was  weeping  tears  of  blood  for  the  misfortunes 
of  the  Protestants.  And  it  was  not  only  women 
and  children.  Stalwart  dangerous  fellows,  used  to 
swing  the  sickle  or  to  wield  the  forest  axe,  were 
likewise  shaken  with  strange  paroxysms,  and 
spoke  oracles  with  sobs  and  streaming  tears.  A 
persecution  unsurpassed  in  violence  had  lasted  near 
a  score  of  years,  and  this  was  the  result  upon  the 
persecuted ;  hanging,  burning,  breaking  on  the 
wheel,  had  been  vain;  the  dragoons  had  left  their 

hoof-marks  over  all  the  country-side ;  there  were 

% 

men  rowing  in  the  galleys,  and  women  pining  in 
the  prisons  of  the  Church;  and  not  a  thought  was 
changed  in  the  heart  of  any  upright  Protestant. 

Now  the  head  and  forefront  of  the  persecution 
—  after  Lamoignon  de  Bavile  —  Frangois  de 
Langlade  du  Chayla  (pronounced  Cheila),  Arch¬ 
priest  of  the  Cevennes  and  Inspector  of  Missions 
in  the  same  country,  had  a  house  in  which  he 
sometimes  dwelt  in  the  town  of  Pont  de  Montvert. 


THE  CAMISARDS 


137 

He  was  a  conscientious  person,  who  seems  to  have 
been  intended  by  nature  for  a  pirate,  and  now 
fifty-five,  an  age  by  which  a  man  has  learned  all 
the  moderation  of  which  he  is  capable.  A  mis¬ 
sionary  in  his  youth  in  China,  he  there  suffered 
martyrdom,  was  left  for  dead,  and  only  succoured 
and  brought  back  to  life  by  the  charity  of  a  pariah. 
We  must  suppose  the  pariah  devoid  of  second 
sight,  and  not  purposely  malicious  in  this  act. 
Such  an  experience,  it  might  be  thought,  would 
have  cured  a  man  of  the  desire  to  persecute;  but 
the  human  spirit  is  a  thing  strangely  put  together ; 
and,  having  been  a  Christian  martyr,  Du  Chayla 
became  a  Christian  persecutor.  The  Work  of  the 
Propagation  of  the  Faith  went  roundly  forward  in 
his  hands.  His  house  in  Pont  de  Montvert  served 
him  as  a  prison.  There  he  plucked  out  the  hairs 
of  the  beard,  and  closed  the  hands  of  his  prisoners 
upon  live  coals,  to  convince  them  that  they  were 
deceived  in  their  opinions.  And  yet  had  not  he 
himself  tried  and  proved  the  inefficacy  of  these 
carnal  arguments  among  the  Buddhists  in  China? 

Not  only  was  life  made  intolerable  in  Langue- 


138  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

doc,  but  flight  was  rigidly  forbidden.  One  Massip, 
a  muleteer,  and  well  acquainted  with  the  moun¬ 
tain-paths,  had  already  guided  several  troops  of 
fugitives  in  safety  to  Geneva ;  and  on  him,  with  an¬ 
other  convoy,  consisting  mostly  of  women  dressed 
as  men,  Du  Chayla,  in  an  evil  hour  for  himself, 
laid  his  hands.  The  Sunday  following,  there  was 
a  conventicle  of  Protestants  in  the  woods  of  Alte- 
fage  upon  Mont  Bouges ;  where  there  stood  up 
one  Seguier  —  Spirit  Seguier,  as  his  companions 
called  him  —  a  wool-carder,  tall,  black-faced,  and 
toothless,  but  a  man  full  of  prophecy.  He  declared, 
in  the  name  of  God,  that  the  time  for  submission 
had  gone  by,  and  they  must  betake  themselves  to 
arms  for  the  deliverance  of  their  brethren  and  the 
destruction  of  the  priests. 

The  next  night,  24th  July,  1702,  a  sound  dis¬ 
turbed  the  Inspector  of  Missions  as  he  sat  in  his 
prison-house  at  Pont  de  Montvert ;  the  voices  of 
many  men  upraised  in  psalmody  drew  nearer  and 
nearer  through  the  town.  It  was  ten  at  night;  he 
had  his  court  about  him,  priests,  soldiers,  and  ser¬ 
vants,  to  the  number  of  twelve  or  fifteen ;  and  now 


THE  CAMISARDS 


l39 

dreading  the  insolence  of  a  conventicle  below  his 
very  windows,  he  ordered  forth  his  soldiers  to 
report.  But  the  psalm-singers  were  already  at  his 
door,  fifty  strong,  led  by  the  inspired  Seguier,  and 
breathing  death.  To  their  summons,  the  arch¬ 
priest  made  answer  like  a  stout  old  persecutor,  and 
bade  his  garrison  fire  upon  the  mob.  One  Cam- 
isard  (for,  according  to  some,  it  was  in  this  night’s 
work  that  they  came  by  the  name)  fell  at  this  dis¬ 
charge;  his  comrades  burst  in  the  door  with 
hatchets  and  a  beam  of  wood,  overran  the  lower 
story  of  the  house,  set  free  the  prisoners,  and 
finding  one  of  them  in  the  vine,  a  sort  of  Scaven¬ 
ger’s  Daughter  of  the  place  and  period,  redoubled 
in  fury  against  Du  Chayla,  and  sought  by  repeated 
assaults  to  carry  the  upper  floors.  But  he,  on  his 
side,  had  given  absolution  to  his  men,  and  they 
bravely  held  the  staircase. 

“  Children  of  God,”  cried  the  prophet,  “  hold 
your  hands.  Let  us  burn  the  house,  with  the  priest 
and  the  satellites  of  Baal.” 

The  fire  caught  readily.  Out  of  an  upper  win¬ 
dow  Du  Chayla  and  his  men  lowered  themselves 


1 4o  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

into  the  garden  by  means  of  knotted  sheets;  some 
escaped  across  the  river  under  the  bullets  of  the 
insurgents;  but  the  archpriest  himself  fell,  broke 
his  thigh,  and  could  only  crawl  into  the  hedge. 
What  were  his  reflections  as  this  second  martyr¬ 
dom  drew  near?  A  poor,  brave,  besotted,  hateful 
man,  who  had  done  his  duty  resolutely  according 
to  his  light  both  in  the  Cevennes  and  China.  He 
found  at  least  one  telling  word  to  say  in  his  de¬ 
fence  ;  for  when  the  roof  fell  in  and  the  upbursting 
flames  discovered  his  retreat,  and  they  came  and 
dragged  him  to  the  public  place  of  the  town,  raging 
and  calling  him  damned  —  “If  I  be  damned,” 
said  he,  “  why  should  you  also  damn  yourselves?  ” 
Here  was  a  good  reason  for  the  last;  but  in  the 
course  of  his  inspectorship  he  had  given  many 
stronger  which  all  told  in  a  contrary  direction ; 
and  these  he  was  now  to  hear.  One  by  one, 
Seguier  first,  the  Camisards  drew  near  and  stabbed 
him.  “  This,”  they  said,  “  is  for  my  father  broken 
on  the  wheel.  This  for  my  brother  in  the  galleys. 
That  for  my  mother  or  my  sister  imprisoned  in 
your  cursed  convents.”  Each  gave  his  blow  and 


THE  CAMISARDS 


141 

his  reason;  and  then  all  kneeled  and  sang  psalms 
around  the  body  till  the  dawn.  With  the  dawn, 
still  singing,  they  defiled  away  towards  Frugeres, 
further  up  the  Tarn,  to  pursue  the  work  of  ven¬ 
geance,  leaving  Du  Chayla’s  prison-house  in  ruins, 
and  his  body  pierced  with  two-and-fifty  wounds 
upon  the  public  place. 

’T  is  a  wild  night’s  work,  with  its  accompani¬ 
ment  of  psalms;  and  it  seems  as  if  a  psalm  must 
always  have  a  sound  of  threatening  in  that  town 
upon  the  Tarn.  But  the  story  does  not  end,  even 
so  far  as  concerns  Pont  de  Montvert,  with  the 
departure  of  the  Camisards.  The  career  of  Seguier 
was  brief  and  bloody.  Two  more  priests  and  a 
whole  family  at  Ladeveze,  from  the  father  to  the 
servants,  fell  by  his  hand  or  by  his  orders;  and 
yet  he  was  but  a  day  or  two  at  large,  and  restrained 
all  the  time  by  the  presence  of  the  soldiery.  Taken 
at  length  by  a  famous  soldier  of  fortune,  Captain 
Poul,  he  appeared  unmoved  before  his  judges. 

“Your  name?”  they  asked. 

“  Pierre  Seguier.” 


“  Why  are  you  called  Spirit?  ” 


i42  travels  with  a  donkey 

“  Because  the  Spirit  of  the  Lord  is  with  me.” 
“Your  domicile?” 

“  Lately  in  the  desert,  and  soon  in  heaven.” 

“  Have  you  no  remorse  for  your  crimes?” 

“  I  have  committed  none.  My  soul  is  like  a 
garden  full  of  shelter  and  of  fountains” 

At  Pont  de  Montvert,  on  the  12th  of  August,  he 
had  his  right  hand  stricken  from  his  body,  and  was 
burned  alive.  And  his  soul  was  like  a  garden? 
So  perhaps  was  the  soul  of  Du  Chayla,  the  Chris¬ 
tian  martyr.  And  perhaps  if  you  could  read  in  my 
soul,  or  I  could  read  in  yours,  our  own  composure 

might  seem  little  less  surprising. 

* 

Du  Chayla’s  house  still  stands,  with  a  new  roof, 
beside  one  of  the  bridges  of  the  town ;  and  if  you 
are  curious  you  may  see  the  terrace-garden  into 
which  he  dropped. 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  TARN 


ANEW  road  leads  from  Pont  de  Montvert 
to  Florae  by  the  valley  of  the  Tarn;  a 
smooth  sandy  ledge,  it  runs  about  half¬ 
way  between  the  summit  of  the  cliffs  and  the  river 
in  the  bottom  of  the  valley ;  and  I  went  in  and  out, 
as  I  followed  it,  from  bays  of  shadow  into  prom¬ 
ontories  of  afternoon  sun.  This  was  a  pass  like 
that  of  Killiecrankie ;  a  deep  turning  gully  in  the 
hills,  with  the  Tarn  making  a  wonderful  hoarse 
uproar  far  below,  and  craggy  summits  standing  in 
the  sunshine  high  above.  A  thin  fringe  of  ash- 
trees  ran  about  the  hill-tops,  like  ivy  on  a  ruin ; 
but  on  the  lower  slopes  and  far  up  every  glen  the 
Spanish  chestnut-trees  stood  each  four-square  to 
heaven  under  its  tented  foliage.  Some  were 
planted  each  on  its  own  terrace,  no  larger  than  a 
bed;  some,  trusting  in  their  roots,  found  strength 
to  grow  and  prosper  and  be  straight  and  large 


i44  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

upon  the  rapid  slopes  of  the  valley;  others,  where 
there  was  a  margin  to  the  river,  stood  marshalled 
in  a  line  and  mighty  like  cedars  of  Lebanon.  Yet 
even  where  they  grew  most  thickly  they  were  not 
to  be  thought  of  as  a  wood,  but  as  a  herd  of  stal¬ 
wart  individuals;  and  the  dome  of  each  tree  stood 
forth  separate  and  large,  and  as  it  were  a  little 
hill,  from  among  the  domes  of  its  companions. 
They  gave  forth  a  faint  sweet  perfume  which  per¬ 
vaded  the  air  of  the  afternoon ;  autumn  had  put 
tints  of  gold  and  tarnish  in  the  green ;  and  the  sun 
so  shone  through  and  kindled  the  broad  foliage, 
that  each  chestnut  was  relieved  against  another, 
not  in  shadow,  but  in  light.  A  humble  sketcher 
here  laid  down  his  pencil  in  despair. 

I  wish  I  could  convey  a  notion  of  the  growth  of 
these  noble  trees ;  of  how  they  strike  out  boughs 
like  the  oak,  and  trail  sprays  of  drooping  foliage 
like  the  willow ;  of  how  they  stand  on  upright 
fluted  columns  like  the  pillars  of  a  church ;  or  like 
the  olive,  from  the  most  shattered  bole  can  put 
out  smooth  and  youthful  shoots,  and  begin  a  new 
life  upon  the  ruins  of  the  old.  Thus  they  partake 


THE  CAMISARDS 


*45 

of  the  nature  of  many  different  trees ;  and  even 
their  prickly  top-knots,  seen  near  at  hand  against 
the  sky,  have  a  certain  palm-like  air  that  impresses 
the  imagination.  But  their  individuality,  although 
compounded  of  so  many  elements,  is  but  the  richer 
and  the  more  original.  And  to  look  down  upon 
a  level  filled  with  these  knolls  of  foliage,  or  to  see 
a  clan  of  old  unconquerable  chestnuts  cluster  “  like 
herded  elephants  ”  upon  the  spur  of  a  mountain, 
is  to  rise  to  higher  thoughts  of  the  powers  that  are 
in  Nature. 

Between  Modestine’s  laggard  humour  and  the 
beauty  of  the  scene,  we  made  little  progress  all  that 
afternoon;  and  at  last  finding  the  sun,  although 
still  far  from  setting,  was  already  beginning  to 
desert  the  narrow  valley  of  the  Tarn,  I  began  to 
cast  about  for  a  place  to  camp  in.  This  was  not 
easy  to  find;  the  terraces  were  too  narrow,  and 
the  ground,  where  it  was  unterraced,  was  usually 
too  steep  for  a  man  to  lie  upon.  I  should  have 
slipped  all  night,  and  awakened  towards  morning 
with  my  feet  or  my  head  in  the  river. 

After  perhaps  a  mile,  I  saw,  some  sixty  feet 


IO 


146  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

above  the  road,  a  little  plateau  large  enough  to 
hold  my  sack,  and  securely  parapeted  by  the  trunk  . 
of  an  aged  and  enormous  chestnut.  Thither,  with 
infinite  trouble,  I  goaded  and  kicked  the  reluctant 
Modestine,  and  there  I  hastened  to  unload  her. 
There  was  only  room  for  myself  upon  the  plateau, 
and  I  had  to  go  nearly  as  high  again  before  I 
found  so  much  as  standing  room  for  the  ass.  It 
was  on  a  heap  of  rolling  stones,  on  an  artificial 
terrace,  certainly  not  five  feet  square  in  all.  Here 
I  tied  her  to  a  chestnut,  and  having  given  her 
corn  and  bread  and  made  a  pile  of  chestnut-leaves, 
of  which  I  found  her  greedy,  I  descended  once 
more  to  my  own  encampment. 

The  position  was  unpleasantly  exposed.  One 
or  two  carts  went  by  upon  the  road ;  and  as  long 
as  daylight  lasted  I  concealed  myself,  for  all 
the  world  like  a  hunted  Camisard,  behind  my 
fortification  of  vast  chestnut  trunk ;  for  I  was  pas¬ 
sionately  afraid  of  discovery  and  the  visit  of  joc¬ 
ular  persons  in  the  night.  Moreover,  I  saw  that  I 
must  be  early  awake;  for  these  chestnut  gardens 
had  been  the  scene  of  industry  no  farther  gone 


THE  CAMISARDS 


I47 

than  on  the  day  before.  The  slope  was  strewn 
with  lopped  branches,  and  here  and  there  a  great 
package  of  leaves  was  propped  against  a  trunk; 
for  even  the  leaves  are  serviceable,  and  the  peas- 
ants  use  them  in  winter  by  way  of  fodder  for 
their  animals.  I  picked  a  meal  in  fear  and  trem¬ 
bling,  half  lying  down  to  hide  myself  from  the 
road;  and  I  dare  say  I  was  as  much  concerned 
as  if  I  had  been  a  scout  from  Toani’s  band  above 
upon  the  Lozere  or  from  Salomon’s  across  the 
Tarn  in  the  old  times  of  psalm-singing  and  blood. 
Or,  indeed,  perhaps  more;  for  the  Camisards  had 
a  remarkable  confidence  in  God;  and  a  tale  comes 
back  into  my  memory  of  how  the  Count  of  Gevau- 
dan,  riding  with  a  party  of  dragoons  and  a  notary 
at  his  saddlebow  to  enforce  the  oath  of  fidelity  in 
all  the  country  hamlets,  entered  a  valley  in  the 
woods,  and  found  Cavalier  and  his  men  at  din¬ 
ner,  gaily  seated  on  the  grass,  and  their  hats 
crowned  with  box-tree  garlands,  while  fifteen 
women  washed  their  linen  in  the  stream.  Such 
was  a  field  festival  in  1703;  at  that  date  Antony 
Watteau  would  be  painting  similar  subjects. 


148  travels  with  a  donkey 

This  was  a  very  different  camp  from  that  of  the 
night  before  in  the  cool  and  silent  pine-woods. 
It  was  warm  and  even  stifling  in  the  valley.  The 
shrill  song  of  frogs,  like  the  tremolo  note  of  a 
whistle  with  a  pea  in  it,  rang  up  from  the  river¬ 
side  before  the  sun  was  down.  In  the  growing 
dusk,  faint  rustlings  began  to  run  to  and  fro 
among  the  fallen  leaves ;  from  time  to  time  a 
faint  chirping  or  cheeping  noise  would  fall  upon 
my  ear;  and  from  time  to  time  I  thought  I  could 
see  the  movement  of  something  swift  and  indis¬ 
tinct  between  the  chestnuts.  A  profusion  of  large 

ants  swarmed  upon  the  ground ;  bats  whisked  by, 

« 

and  mosquitoes  droned  overhead.  The  long  boughs 
with  their  bunches  of  leaves  hung  against  the  sky 
like  garlands;  and  those  immediately  above  and 
around  me  had  somewhat  the  air  of  a  trellis  which 
should  have  been  wrecked  and  half  overthrown  in 
a  gale  of  wind. 

Sleep  for  a  long  time  fled  my  eyelids;  and  just 
as  I  was  beginning  to  feel  quiet  stealing  over  my 
limbs,  and  settling  densely  on  my  mind,  a  noise 
at  my  head  startled  me  broad  awake  again,  and, 


THE  CAMISARDS 


H9 

I  will  frankly  confess  it,  brought  my  heart  into 
my  mouth.  It  was  such  a  noise  as  a  person  would 
make  scratching  loudly  with  a  finger-nail,  it  came 
from  under  the  knapsack  which  served  me  for  a 
pillow,  and  it  was  thrice  repeated  before  I  had 
time  to  sit  up  and  turn  about.  Nothing  was  to 
be  seen,  nothing  more  was  to  be  heard,  but  a 
few  of  these  mysterious  rustlings  far  and  near, 
and  the  ceaseless  accompaniment  of  the  river  and 
the  frogs.  I  learned  next  day  that  the  chestnut 
gardens  are  infested  by  rats ;  rustling,  chirping, 
and  scraping  were  probably  all  due  to  these;  but 
the  puzzle,  for  the  moment,  was  insoluble,  and  I 
had  to  compose  myself  for  sleep,  as  best  I  could, 
in  wondering  uncertainty  about  my  neighbours. 

I  was  wakened  in  the  grey  of  the  morning 
(Monday,  30th  September)  by  the  sound  of  foot¬ 
steps  not  far  off  upon  the  stones,  and  opening 
my  eyes,  I  beheld  a  peasant  going  by  among  the 
chestnuts  by  a  foot-path  that  I  had  not  hitherto 

observed.  He  turned  his  head  neither  to  the  right 

#  « 

nor  to  the  left,  and  disappeared  in  a  few  strides 
among  the  foliage.  Here  was  an  escape !  But  it 


150  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

was  plainly  more  than  time  to  be  moving.  The 
peasantry  were  abroad ;  scarce  less  terrible  to  me 
in  my  nondescript  position  than  the  soldiers  of 
Captain  Poul  to  an  undaunted  Camisard.  I  fed 
Modestine  with  what  haste  I  could ;  but  as  I  was 
returning  to  my  sack,  I  saw  a  man  and  a  boy 
come  down  the  hillside  in  a  direction  crossing 
mine.  They  unintelligibly  hailed  me,  and  I  re¬ 
plied  with  inarticulate  but  cheerful  sounds,  and 
hurried  forward  to  get  into  my  gaiters. 

The  pair,  who  seemed  to  be  father  and  son, 
came  slowly  up  to  the  plateau,  and  stood  close  be¬ 
side  me  for  some  time  in  silence.  The  bed  was 
open,  and  I  saw  with  regret  my  revolver  lying 
patently  disclosed  on  the  blue  wool.  At  last,  after 
they  had  looked  me  all  over,  and  silence  had 
grown  laughably  embarrassing,  the  man  demanded 
in  what  seemed  unfriendly  tones : 

“You  have  slept  here?” 

“  Yes,”  said  I.  “  As  you  see.” 

“  Why?”  he  asked. 

“  My  faith,”  I  answered  lightly,  “  I  was  tired.” 

He  next  inquired  where  I  was  going  and  what 


THE  CAMISARDS 


I5I 

I  had  had  for  dinner;  and  then,  without  the  least 
transition,  "  C’est  bien  ”  he  added.  “  Come  along.” 
And  he  and  his  son,  without  another  word,  turned 
off  to  the  next  chestnut-tree  but  one,  which  they 
set  to  pruning.  The  thing  had  passed  off  more 
simply  than  I  hoped.  He  was  a  grave,  respect¬ 
able  man ;  and  his  unfriendly  voice  did  not  imply 
that  he  thought  he  was  speaking  to  a  criminal, 
but  merely  to  an  inferior. 

I  was  soon  on  the  road,  nibbling  a  cake  of 
chocolate  and  seriously  occupied  with  a  case  of 
conscience.  Was  I  to  pay  for  my  night's  lodg¬ 
ing?  I  had  slept  ill,  the  bed  was  full  of  fleas  in 

« 

the  shape  of  ants,  there  was  no  water  in  the 
room,  the  very  dawn  had  neglected  to  call  me  in 
the  morning.  I  might  have  missed  a  train,  had 
there  been  any  in  the  neighbourhood  to  catch. 
Clearly,  I  was  dissatisfied  with  my  entertainment; 
and  I  decided  I  should  not  pay  unless  I  met  a 
beggar. 

The  valley  looked  even  lovelier  by  morning ; 
and  soon  the  road  descended  to  the  level  of  the 
river.  Here,  in  a  place  where  many  straight  and 


152  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

prosperous  chestnuts  stood  together,  making  an 
aisle  upon  a  swarded  terrace,  I  made  my  morning 
toilette  in  the  water  of  the  Tarn.  It  was  mar¬ 
vellously  clear,  thrillingly  cool ;  the  soap-suds  dis¬ 
appeared  as  if  by  magic  in  the  swift  current,  and 
the  white  boulders  gave  one  a  model  for  cleanli¬ 
ness.  To  wash  in  one  of  God’s  rivers  in  the  open 
air  seems  to  me  a  sort  of  cheerful  solemnity  or 
semi-pagan  act  of  worship.  To  dabble  among 
dishes  in  a  bedroom  may  perhaps  make  clean  the 
body;  but  the  imagination  takes  no  share  in  such 
a  cleansing.  I  went  on  with  a  light  and  peaceful 
heart,  and  sang  psalms  to  the  spiritual  ear  as  I 
advanced. 

Suddenly  up  came  an  old  woman,  who  point- 
blank  demanded  alms. 

“Good!”  thought  I;  “  here  comes  the  waiter 
with  the  bill.” 

And  I  paid  for  my  night’s  lodging  on  the  spot. 
Take  it  how  you  please,  but  this  was  the  first  and 
the  last  beggar  that  I  met  with  during  all  my 
tour. 

A  step  or  two  farther  I  was  overtaken  by  an 


THE  CAMISARDS 


x53 

old  man  in  a  brown  nightcap,  clear-eyed,  weather¬ 
beaten,  with  a  faint,  excited  smile.  A  little  girl 
followed  him,  driving  two  sheep  and  a  goat ;  but 
she  kept  in  our  wake,  while  the  old  man  walked 
beside  me  and  talked  about  the  morning  and  the 
valley.  It  was  not  much  past  six;  and  for 
healthy  people  who  have  slept  enough,  that  is 
an  hour  of  expansion  and  of  open  and  trustful 
talk. 

“  Connaissez-vous  le  Seigneur  ?”  he  said  at 
length. 

I  asked  him  what  Seigneur  he  meant;  but  he 
only  repeated  the  question  with  more  emphasis  and 
a  look  in  his  eyes  denoting  hope  and  interest. 

“  Ah!  ”  said  I,  pointing  upwards,  “  I  understand 
you  now.  Yes,  I  know  Him;  He  is  the  best  of 
acquaintances.” 

The  old  man  said  he  was  delighted.  “  Hold,” 
he  added,  striking  his  bosom;  “  it  makes  me  happy 
here.”  There  were  a  few  who  knew  the  Lord  in 
these  valleys,  he  went  on  to  tell  me;  not  many, 
but  a  few.  “  Many  are  called,”  he  quoted,  “  and 
few  chosen.” 


i54  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

“  My  father/’  said  I,  “  it  is  not  easy  to  say  who 
know  the  Lord;  and  it  is  none  of  our  business. 
Protestants  and  Catholics,  and  even  those  who 
worship  stones,  may  know  Him  and  be  known  by 
Him;  for  He  has  made  all.” 

I  did  not  know  I  was  so  good  a  preacher. 

The  old  man  assured  me  he  thought  as  I  did, 
and  repeated  his  expressions  of  pleasure  at  meet¬ 
ing  me.  “  We  are  so  few,”  he  said.  “  They  call 
us  Moravians  here;  but  down  in  the  department 
of  Gard,  where  there  are  also  a  good  number, 
they  are  called  Derbists,  after  an  English  pastor.” 

I  began  to  understand  that  I  was  figuring,  in 
questionable  taste,  as  a  member  of  some  sect  to 
me  unknown ;  but  I  was  more  pleased  with  the 
pleasure  of  my  companion  than  embarrassed  by 
my  own  equivocal  position.  Indeed  I  can  see  no 
dishonesty  in  not  avowing  a  difference ;  .  and  es¬ 
pecially  in  these  high  matters,  where  we  have  all 
a  sufficient  assurance  that,  whoever  may  be  in 
the  wrong,  we  ourselves  are  not  completely  in  the 
right.  The  truth  is  much  talked  about ;  but  this 
old  man  in  a  brown  nightcap  showed  himself  so 


THE  CAMISARDS  155 

simple,  sweet,  and  friendly  that  I  am  not  un¬ 
willing  to  profess  myself  his  convert.  He  was, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  a  Plymouth  Brother.  Of 
what  that  involves  in  the  way  of  doctrine  I  have 
no  idea  nor  the  time  to  inform  myself ;  but  I 
know  right  well  that  we  are  all  embarked  upon 
a  troublesome  world,  the  children  of  one  Father, 
striving  in  many  essential  points  to  do  and  to 
become  the  same.  And  although  it  was,  some¬ 
what  in  a  mistake  that  he  shook  hands  with  me 
so  often  and  showed  himself  so  ready  to  receive 
my  words,  that  was  a  mistake  of  the  truth-find¬ 
ing  sort.  For  charity  begins  blindfold;  and  only 
through  a  series  of  similar  misapprehensions  rises 
at  length  into  a  settled  principle  of  love  and  pa¬ 
tience,  and  a  firm  belief  in  all  our  fellow-men.  If 
I  deceived  this  good  old  man,  in  the  like  manner 
I  would  willingly  go  on  to  deceive  others.  And 
if  ever  at  length,  out  of  our  separate  and  sad 
ways,  we  should  all  come  together  into  one  com¬ 
mon  house,  I  have  a  hope,  to  which  I  cling  dearly, 
that  my  mountain  Plymouth  Brother  will  hasten 
to  shake  hands  with  me  again. 


156  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

Thus,  talking  like  Christian  and  Faithful  by 
the  way,  he  and  I  came  down  upon  a  hamlet  by 
the  Tarn.  It  was  but  a  humble  place,  called  La 
Vernede,  with  less  than  a  dozen  houses,  and  a 
Protestant  chapel  on  a  knoll.  Here  he  dwelt ;  and  • 
here,  at  the  inn,  I  ordered  my  breakfast.  The 
inn  was  kept  by  an  agreeable  young  man,  a  stone- 
breaker  on  the  road,  and  his  sister,  a  pretty  and 
engaging  girl.  The  village  school-master  dropped 
in  to  speak  with  the  stranger.  And  these  were 
all  Protestants  —  a  fact  which  pleased  me  more 
than  I  should  have  expected ;  and,  what  pleased 
me  still  more,  they  seemed  all  upright  and  simple 
people.  The  Plymouth  Brother  hung  round  me 
with  a  sort  of  yearning  interest,  and  returned  at 
least  thrice  to  make  sure  I  was  enjoying  my  meal. 
His  behaviour  touched  me  deeply  at  the  time,  and 
even  now  moves  me  in  recollection.  He  feared 
to  intrude,  but  he  would  not  willingly  forego  one 
moment  of  my  society ;  and  he  seemed  never 
weary  of  shaking  me  by  the  hand. 

When  all  the  rest  had  drifted  off  to  their  day’s 
work,  I  sat  for  near  half  an  hour  with  the  young 


THE  CAMISARDS 


l57 

mistress  of  the  house,  who  talked  pleasantly  over 
her  seam  of  the  chestnut  harvest,  and  the  beauties 
of  the  Tarn,  and  old  family  affections,  broken  up 
when  young  folk  go  from  home,  yet  still  subsist¬ 
ing.  Hers,  I  am  sure,  was  a  sweet  nature,  with 
a  country  plainness  and  much  delicacy  under¬ 
neath;  and  he  who  takes  her  to  his  heart  will 
doubtless  be  a  fortunate  young  man. 

The  valley  below  La  Vernede  pleased  me  more 
and  more  as  I  went  forward.  Now  the  hills  ap¬ 
proached  from  either  hand,  naked  and  crumbling, 
and  walled  in  the  river  between  cliffs;  and  now 
the  valley  widened  and  became  green.  The  road 
led  me  past  the  old  castle  of  Miral  on  a  steep; 
past  a  battlemented  monastery,  long  since  broken 
up  and  turned  into  a  church  and  parsonage;  and 
past  a  cluster  of  black  roofs,  the  village  of  Co¬ 
cures,  sitting  among  vineyards  and  meadows  and 
orchards  thick  with  red  apples,  and  where,  along 
the  highway,  they  were  knocking  down  walnuts 
from  the  roadside  trees,  and  gathering  them  in 
sacks  and  baskets.  The  hills,  however  much  the 
vale  might  open,  were  still  tall  and  bare,  with 


158  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

cliffy  battlements  and  here  and  there  a  pointed 
summit;  and  the  Tarn  still  rattled  through  the 
stones  with  a  mountain  noise.  I  had  been  led, 
by  bagmen  of  a  picturesque  turn  of  mind,  to  ex¬ 
pect  a  horrific  country  after  the  heart  of  Byron ; 
but  to  my  Scotch  eyes  it  seemed  smiling  and 
plentiful,  as  the  weather  still  gave  an  impression 
of  high  summer  to  my  Scotch  body;  although  the 
chestnuts  were  already  picked  out  by  the  autumn, 
and  the  poplars,  that  here  began  to  mingle  with 
them,  had  turned  into  pale  gold  against  the  ap¬ 
proach  of  winter. 

There  was  something  in  this  landscape,  smiling 
although  wild,  that  explained  to  me  the  spirit  of 
the  Southern  Covenanters.  Those  who  took  to 
the  hills  for  conscience'  sake  in  Scotland  had  all 
gloomy  and  bedevilled  thoughts;  for  once  that 
they  received  God's  comfort  they  would  be  twice 
engaged  with  Satan ;  but  the  Camisards  had  only 
bright  and  supporting  visions.  They  dealt  much 
more  in  blood,  both  given  and  taken ;  yet  I  find 
no  obsession  of  the  Evil  One  in  their  records. 
With  a  light  conscience,  they  pursued  their  life 


THE  CAMISARDS 


IS9 

in  these  rough  times  and  circumstances.  The  soul 
of  Seguier,  let  us  not  forget,  was  like  a  garden. 
They  knew  they  were  on  God’s  side,  with  a 
knowledge  that  has  no  parallel  among  the  Scots; 
for  the  Scots,  although  they  might  be  certain  of 
the  cause,  could  never  rest  confident  of  the  person. 

“  We  flew,”  says  one  old  Camisard,  “  when  we 
heard  the  sound  of  psalm-singing,  we  flew  as  if 
with  wings.  We  felt  within  us  an  animating 
ardour,  a  transporting  desire.  The  feeling  cannot 
be  expressed  in  words.  It  is  a  thing  that  must 
have  been  experienced  to  be  understood.  How¬ 
ever  weary  we  might  be,  we  thought  no  more  of 
our  weariness  and  grew  light,  so  soon  as  the 
psalms  fell  upon  our  ears.’’ 

The  valley  of  the  Tarn  and  the  people  whom  I 
met  at  La  Vernede  not  only  explain  to  me  this 
passage,  but  the  twenty  years  of  suffering  which 
those,  who  were  so  stiff  and  so  bloody  when  once 
they  betook  themselves  to  war,  endured  with  the 
meekness  of  children  and  the  constancy  of  saints 
and  peasants. 


FLORAC 


O 


N  a  branch  of  the  Tarn  stands  Florae,  the 
seat  of  a  subprefecture,  with  an  old 


castle,  an  alley  of  planes,  many  quaint 


street-corners,  and  a  live  fountain  welling  from 
the  hill.  It  is  notable,  besides,  for  handsome 
women,  and  as  one  of  the  two  capitals,  Alais  being 
the  other,  of  the  country  of  the  Camisards. 

The  landlord  of  the  inn  took  me,  after  I  had 
,  eaten,  to  an  adjoining  cafe ,  where  I,  or  rather  my 
journey,  became  the  topic  of  the  afternoon.  Every 
one  had  some  suggestion  for  my  guidance ;  and 
the  subprefectorial  map  was  fetched  from  the  sub¬ 
prefecture  itself,  and  much  thumbed  among  coffee- 
cups  and  glasses  of  liqueur.  Most  of  these  kind 
advisers  were  Protestant,  though  I  observed  that 
Protestant  and  Catholic  intermingled  in  a  very 
easy  manner;  and  it  surprised  me  to  see  what  a 
lively  memory  still  subsisted  of  the  religious  war. 


THE  CAMISARDS  161 

Among  the  hills  of  the  south-west,  by  Mauchline, 
Cumnock,  or  Carsphairn,  in  isolated  farms  or  in 
the  manse,  serious  Presbyterian  people  still  recall 
the  days  of  the  great  persecution,  and  the  graves 
of  local  martyrs  are  still  piously  regarded.  But  in 
towns  and  among  the  so-called  better  classes,  I 
fear  that  these  old  doings  have  become  an  idle  tale. 
If  you  met  a  mixed  company  in  the  King's  Arms 
at  Wigtown,  it  is  not  likely  that  the  talk  would 
run  on  Covenanters.  Nay,  at  Muirkirk  of  Glen- 
luce,  I  found  the  beadle's  wife  had  not  so  much  as 
heard  of  Prophet  Peden.  But  these  Cevenols  were 
proud  of  their  ancestors  in  quite  another  sense; 
the  war  was  their  chosen  topic;  its  exploits  were 
their  own  patent  of  nobility;  and  where  a  man  or 
a  race  has  had  but  one  adventure,  and  that  heroic, 
we  must  expect  and  pardon  some  prolixity  of  ref¬ 
erence.  They  told  me  the  country  was  still  full 
of  legends  hitherto  uncollected ;  I  heard  from  them 
about  Cavalier’s  descendants  —  not  direct  descend¬ 
ants,  be  it  understood,  but  only  cousins  or  nephews 
—  who  were  still  prosperous  people  in  the  scene 
of  the  boy-general's  exploits;  and  one  farmer  had 


162  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

seen  the  bones  of  old  combatants  dug  up  into  the 
air  of  an  afternoon  in  the  nineteenth  century,  in 
a  field  where  the  ancestors  had  fought,  and  the 
great-grandchildren  were  peaceably  ditching. 

Later  in  the  day  one  of  the  Protestant  pastors 
was  so  good  as  to  visit  me :  a  young  man,  intelli¬ 
gent  and  polite,  with  whom  I  passed  an  hour  or 
two  in  talk.  Florae,  he  told  me,  is  part  Protestant, 
part  Catholic ;  and  the  difference  in  religion  is 
usually  doubled  by  the  difference  in  politics.  You 
may  judge  of  my  surprise,  coming  as  I  did  from 
such  a  babbling  purgatorial  Poland  of  a  place  as 
Monastier,  when  I  learned  that  the  population  lived 
'  together  on  very  quiet  terms;  and  there  was  even 
an  exchange  of  hospitalities  between  households 
thus  doubly  separated.  Black  Camisard  and  White 
Camisard,  militiaman  and  Miquelet  and  dragoon, 
Protestant  prophet  and  Catholic  cadet  of  the  White 
Cross,  they  had  all  been  sabring  and  shooting, 
burning,  pillaging  and  murdering,  their  hearts  hot 
with  indignant  passion ;  and  here,  after  a  hundred 
and  seventy  years,  Protestant  is  still  Protestant, 
Catholic  still  Catholic,  in  mutual  toleration  and 


THE  CAMISARDS  163 

mild  amity  of  life.  But  the  race  of  man,  like  that 
indomitable  nature  whence  it  sprang,  has  medi¬ 
cating  virtues  of  its  own;  the  years  and  seasons 
bring  various  harvests;  the  sun  returns  after  the 
rain;  and  mankind  outlives  secular  animosities, 
as  a  single  man  awakens  from  the  passions  of  a 
day.  We  judge  our  ancestors  from  a  more  divine 
position ;  and  the  dust  being  a  little  laid  with 
several  centuries,  we  can  see  both  sides  adorned 
with  human  virtues  and  fighting  with  a  show  of 
right. 

I  have  never  thought  it  easy  to  be  just,  and  find 
it  daily  even  harder  than  I  thought.  I  own  I  met 
these  Protestants  with  delight  and  a  sense  of 
coming  home.  I  was  accustomed  to  speak  their 
language,  in  another  and  deeper  sense  of  the  word 
than  that  which  distinguishes  between  French  and 
English ;  for  the  true  babel  is  a  divergence  upon 
morals.  And  hence  I  could  hold  more  free  com¬ 
munication  with  the  Protestants,  and  judge  them 
more  justly,  than  the  Catholics.  Father  Apol- 
linaris  may  pair  off  with  my  mountain  Plymouth 
Brother  as  two  guileless  and  devout  old  men ;  yet 


1 64  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

I  ask  myself  if  I  had  as  ready  a  feeling  for  the 
virtues  of  the  Trappist;  or  had  I  been  a  Catholic, 
if  I  should  have  felt  so  warmly  to  the  dissenter 
of  La  Vernede.  With  the  first  I  was  on  terms  of 
mere  forbearance;  but  with  the  other,  although 
only  on  a  misunderstanding  and  by  keeping  on 
selected  points,  it  was  still  possible  to  hold  converse 
and  exchange  some  honest  thoughts.  In  this  world 
of  imperfection  we  gladly  welcome  even  partial 
intimacies.  If  we  find  but  one  to  whom  we  can 
speak  out  of  our  heart  freely,  with  whom  we  can 
walk  in  love  and  simplicity  without  dissimulation, 
we  have  no  ground  of  quarrel  with  the  world  or 
God. 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MIMENTE 


ON  Tuesday,  ist  October,  we  left  Florae 
late  in  the  afternoon,  a  tired  donkey  and 
tired  donkey-driver.  A  little  way  up  the 
Tarnon,  a  covered  bridge  of  wood  introduced  us 
into  the  valley  of  the  Mimente.  Steep  rocky  red 
mountains  overhung  the  stream;  great  oaks  and 
chestnuts  grew  upon  the  slopes  or  in  stony  ter- 

f 

races;  here  and  there  was  a  red  field  of  millet  or 
a  few  apple-trees  studded  with  red  apples ;  and  the 
road  passed  hard  by  two  black  hamlets,  one  with 
an  old  castle  atop  to  please  the  heart  of  the  tourist. 

It  was  difficult  here  again  to  find  a  spot  fit  for 
my  encampment.  Even  under  .the  oaks  and  chest¬ 
nuts  the  ground  had  not  only  a  very  rapid  slope, 
but  was  heaped  with  loose  stones ;  and  where  there 
was  no  timber  the  hills  descended  to  the  stream  in 
a  red  precipice  tufted  with  heather.  The  sun  had 
left  the  highest  peak  in  front  of  me,  and  the  valley 


1 66  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

was  full  of  the  lowing  sound  of  herdsmen’s  horns 
as  they  recalled  the  flocks  into  the  stable,  when 
I  spied  a  bight  of  meadow  some  way  below  the 
roadway  in  an  angle  of  the  river.  Thither  I  de¬ 
scended,  and,  tying  Modestine  provisionally  to  a 
tree,  proceeded  to  investigate  the  neighbourhood. 
A  grey  pearly  evening  shadow  filled  the  glen; 
objects  at  a  little  distance  grew  indistinct  and 
melted  bafflingly  into  each  other ;  and  the  dark¬ 
ness  was  rising  steadily  like  an  exhalation.  I  ap¬ 
proached  a  great  oak  which  grew  in  the  meadow, 
hard  by  the  river’s  brink;  when  to  my  disgust 
,  the  voices  of  children  fell  upon  my  ear,  and  I 
beheld  a  house  round  the  angle  on  the  other 
bank.  I  had  half  a  mind  to  pack  and  be  gone 
again,  but  the  growing  darkness  moved  me  to 
remain.  I  had  only  to  make  no  noise  until  the 
night  was  fairly  come,  and  trust  to  the  dawn  to 
call  me  early  in  the  morning.  But  it  was  hard 
to  be  annoyed  by  neighbours  in  such  a  great 
hotel. 

A  hollow  underneath  the  oak  was  my  bed.  Be¬ 
fore  I  had  fed  Modestine  and  arranged  my  sack, 


THE  CAMISARDS.  167 

three  stars  were  already  brightly  shining;  and  the 
others  were  beginning  dimly  to  appear.  I  slipped 
down  to  the  river,  which  looked  very  black  among 
its  rocks,  to  fill  my  can;  %and  dined  with  a  good 
appetite  in  the  dark,  for  I  scrupled  to  light  a  lan¬ 
tern  while  so  near  a  house.  The  moon,  which  I 
had  seen,  a  pallid  crescent,  all  afternoon,  faintly 
illuminated  the  summit  of  the  hills,  but  not  a  ray 
fell  into  the  bottom  of  the  glen  where  I  was  lying. 
The  oak  rose  before  me  like  a  pillar  of  darkness; 
and  overhead  the  heartsome  stars  were  set  in  the 
face  of  the  night.  No  one  knows  the  stars  who 
has  not  slept,  as  the  French  happily  put  it,  a  la 
belle  etoile.  He  may  know  all  their  names  and 
distances  and  magnitudes,  and  yet  be  ignorant 
of  what  alone  concerns  mankind,  their  serene  and 
gladsome  influence  on  the  mind.  The  greater  part 
of  poetry  is  about  the  stars;  and  very  justly,  for 
they  are  themselves  the  most  classical  of  poets. 
These  same  far-away  worlds,  sprinkled  like  tapers 
or  shaken  together  like  a  diamond  dust  upon  the 
sky,  had  looked  not  otherwise  to  Roland  or  Cav¬ 
alier,  when,  in  the  words  of  the  latter,  they  had 


1 6 8  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 


“  no  other  tent  but  the  sky,  and  no  other  bed  than 
my  mother  earth.” 

All  night  a  strong  wind  blew  up  the  valley,  and 
the  acorns  fell  pattering  over  me  from  the  oak. 
Yet,  on  this  first  night  of  October,  the  air  was 
as  mild  as  May,  and  I  slept  with  the  fur  thrown 
back. 

I  was  much  disturbed  by  the  barking  of  a  dog, 
an  animal  that  I  fear  more  than  any  wolf.  A  dog 
is  vastly  braver,  and  is  besides  supported  by  the 
sense  of  duty.  If  you  kill  a  wolf,  you  meet  with 
encouragement  and  praise;  but  if  you  kill  a  dog, 
the  sacred  rights  of  property  and  the  domestic 
affections  come  clamouring  round  you  for  re¬ 
dress.  At  the  end  of  a  fagging’  day,  the  sharp, 
cruel  note  of  a  dog’s  bark  is  in  itself  a  keen 
annoyance ;  and  to  a  tramp  like  myself,  he  repre¬ 
sents  the  sedentary  and  respectable  world  in  its 
most  hostile  form.  There  is  something  of  the 
clergyman  or  the  lawyer  about  this  engaging  ani¬ 
mal ;  and  if  he  were  not  amenable  to  stones,  the 
boldest  man  would  shrink  from  travelling  afoot. 
I  respect  dogs  much  in  the  domestic  circle;  but 


THE  CAMISARDS  169 

on  the  highway  or  sleeping  afield,  I  both  detest 
and  fear  them. 

I  was  wakened  next  morning  (Wednesday, 
October  2d)  by  the  same  dog — for  I  knew  his 
bark  —  making  a  charge  down  the  bank,  and  then, 
seeing  me  sit  up,  retreating  again  with  great  alac¬ 
rity.  The  stars  were  not  yet  quite  extinguished. 
The  heaven  was  of  that  enchanting  mild  grey-blue 
of  the  early  morn.  A  still  clear  light  began  to  fall, 
and  the  trees  on  the  hillside  were  outlined  sharply 
against  the  sky.  The  wind  had  veered  more  to 
the  north,  and  no  longer  reached  me  in  the  glen; 
but  as  I  was  going  on  with  my  preparations,  it 
drove  a  white  cloud  very  swiftly  over  the  hill-top ; 
and  looking  up,  I  was  surprised  to  see  the  cloud 
dyed  with  gold.  In  these  high  regions  of  the  air, 
the  sun  was  already  shining  as  at  noon.  If  only 
the  clouds  travelled  high  enough,  we  should  see 
the  same  thing  all  night  long.  For  it  is  always 
daylight  in  the  fields  of  space. 

As  I  began  to  go  up  the  valley,  a  draught  of 
wind  came  down  it  out  of  the  seat  of  the  sun¬ 
rise,  although  the  clouds  continued  to  run  over- 


i7o  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

head  in  an  almost  contrary  direction.  A  few  steps 
farther,  and  I  saw  a  whole  hillside  gilded  with 
the  sun ;  and  still  a  little  beyond,  between  two 
peaks,  a  centre  of  dazzling  brilliancy  appeared 
floating  in  the  sky,  and  I  was  once  more  face  to 
face  with  the  big  bonfire  that  occupies  the  kernel 
of  our  system. 

I  met  but  one  human  being  that  forenoon,  a 
dark  military-looking  wayfarer,  who  carried  a 
game-bag  on  a  baldric;  but  he  made  a  remark: 
that  seems  worthy  of  record.  For  when  I  asked 
him  if  he  were  Protestant  or  Catholic - 

“  O,”  said  he,  “  I  make  no  shame  of  my  reli¬ 
gion.  I  am  a  Catholic.’' 

He  made  no  shame  of  it !  The  phrase  is  a  piece 
of  natural  statistics ;  for  it  is  the  language  of 
one  in  a  minority.  I  thought  with  a  smile  of 
Bavile  and  his  dragoons,  and  how  you  may  ride 
rough-shod  over  a  religion  for  a  century,  and 
leave  it  only  the  more  lively  for  the  friction. 
Ireland  is  still  Catholic;  the  Cevennes  still  Protes¬ 
tant.  It  is  not  a  basketful  of  law-papers,  nor  the 
hoofs  and  pistol-butts  of  a  regiment  of  horse,  that 


THE  CAMISARDS 


l7l 

i 

can  change  one  tittle  of  a  ploughman’s  thoughts. 
Outdoor  rustic  people  have  not  many  ideas,  but 
such  as  they  have  are  hardy  plants  and  thrive 
flourishingly  in  persecution.  One  who  has  grown 
a  long  while  in  the  sweat  of  laborious  noons,  and 
under  the  stars  at  night,  a  frequenter  of  hills  and 
forests,  an  old  honest  countryman,  has,  in  the 
end,  a  sense  of.  communion  with  the  powers  of 
the  universe,  and  amicable  relations  towards  his 
God.  Like  my  mountain  Plymouth  Brother,  he 
knows  the  Lord.  His  religion  does  not  repose 
upon  a  choice  of  logic;  it  is  the  poetry  of  the 
man’s  experience,  the  philosophy  of  the  history 
of  his  life.  God,  like  a  great  power,  like  a  great 
shining  sun,  has  appeared  to  this  simple  fellow 
in  the  course  of  years,  and  become  the  ground 
and  essence  of  his  least  reflections;  and  you  may 

4 

change  creeds  and  dogmas  by  authority,  or  pro¬ 
claim  a  new  religion  with  the  sound  of  trumpets, 
if  you  will ;  but  here  is  a  man  who  has  his  own 
thoughts,  and  will  stubbornly  adhere  to  them  in 
good  and  evil.  He  is  a  Catholic,  a  Protestant,  or 
a  Plymouth  Brother,- in  the  same  indefeasible  sense 


172  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

that  a  man  is  not  a  woman,  or  a  woman  not  a 
man.  For  he  could  not  vary  from  his  faith,  un¬ 
less  he  could  eradicate  all  memory  of  the  past, 
and,  in  a  strict  and  not  a  conventional  meaning, 
change  his  mind. 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  COUNTRY 


I  WAS  now  drawing  near  to  Cassagnas,  a 
cluster  of  black  roofs  upon  the  hillside,  in 
this  wild  valley,  among  chestnut  gardens, 
and  looked  upon  in  the  clear  air  by  many  rocky 
peaks.  The  road  along  the  Mimente  is  yet  new, 
nor  have  the  mountaineers  recovered  their  sur¬ 
prise  when  the  first  cart  arrived  at  Cassagnas. 
But  although  it  lay  thus  apart  from  the  current 
of  men’s  business,  this  hamlet  had  already  made 
a  figure  in  the  history  of  France.  Hard  by,  in 
caverns  of  the  mountain,  was  one  of  the  five 
arsenals  of  the  Camisards;  where  they  laid  up 
clothes  and  corn  and  arms  against  necessity,  forged 
bayonets  and  sabres,  and  made  themselves  gun¬ 
powder  with  willow  charcoal  and  saltpetre  boiled 
in  kettles.  To  the  same  caves,  amid  this  multi¬ 
farious  industry,  the  sick  and  wounded  were 
brought  up  to  heal ;  and  there  they  were  visited 


i74  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

by  the  two  surgeons,  Chabrier  and  Tavan,  and 
secretly  nursed  by  women  of  the  neighbourhood. 

Of  the  five  legions  into  which  the  Camisards 
were  divided,  it  was  the  oldest  and  the  most 
obscure  that  had  its  magazines  by  Cassagnas. 
This  was  the  band  of  Spirit  Seguier;  men  who 
had  joined  their  voices  with  his  in  the  68th  Psalm 
as  they  marched  down  by  night  on  the  archpriest 
of  the  Cevennes.  Seguier,  promoted  to  heaven, 
was  succeeded  by  Salomon  Couderc,  whom  Cava¬ 
lier  treats  in  his  memoirs  as  chaplain-general  to 
the  whole  army  of  the  Camisards.  He  was  a 
prophet;  a  great  reader  of  the  heart,  who  ad- 
'lmitted  people  to  the  sacrament  or  refused  them 
by  “  intentively  viewing  every  man  ”  between  the 
eyes ;  and  had  the  most  of  the  Scriptures  off  by 
rote.  And  this  was  surely  happy ;  since  in  a 
*  surprise  in  August,  1703,  he  lost  his  mule,  his 
portfolios,  and  his  Bible.  It  is  only  strange  that 
they  were  not  surprised  more  often  and  more 
effectually ;  for  this  legion  of  Cassagnas  was  truly 
patriarchal  in  its  theory  of  war,  and  camped 
without  sentries,  leaving  that  duty  to  the  angels 


THE  CAMISARDS 


*75 

of  the  God  for  whom  they  fought.  This  is  a 
token,  not  only  of  their  faith,  but  of  the  track¬ 
less  country  where  they  harboured.  M.  de  Cala- 
don,  taking  a  stroll  one  fine  day,  walked  without 
warning  into  their  midst,  as  he  might  have  walked 
into  “  a  flock  of  sheep  in  a  plain,”  and  found 
some  asleep  and  some  awake  and  psalm-singing. 
A  traitor  had  need  of  no  recommendation  to  in¬ 
sinuate  himself  among  their  ranks,  beyond  “  his 

4 

faculty  of  singing  psalms  ” ;  and  even  the  prophet 
Salomon  “  took  him  into  a  particular  friendship.” 
Thus,  among  their  intricate  hills,  the  rustic  troop 
subsisted ;  and  history  can  attribute  few  exploits 
to  them  but  sacraments  and  ecstasies. 

People  of  this  tough  and  simple  stock  will  not, 
as  I  have  just  been  saying,  prove  variable  in  re¬ 
ligion  ;  nor  will  they  get  nearer  to  apostasy  than 
a  mere  external  conformity  like  that  of  Naaman 
in  the  house  of  Rimmon.  When  Louis  XVI.,  in 
the  words  of  the  edict,  “  convinced  by  the  useless¬ 
ness  of  a  century  of  persecutions,  and  rather  from 
necessity  than  sympathy,”  granted  at  last  a  royal 
grace  of  toleration,  Cassagnas  was  still  Protestant ; 


1 76  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

and  to  a  man,  it  is  so  to  this  day.  There  is,  in¬ 
deed,  one  family  that  is  not  Protestant,  but  neither 
is  it  Catholic.  It  is  that  of  a  Catholic  cure  in 
revolt,  who  has  taken  to  his  bosom  a  schoolmis¬ 
tress.  And  his  conduct,  it 's  worth  noting,  is  dis¬ 
approved  by  the  Protestant  villagers. 

“  It  is  a  bad  idea  for  a  man,”  said  one,  “  to 
go  back  from  his  engagements.” 

The  villagers  whom  I  saw  seemed  intelligent 
after  a  countrified  fashion,  and  were  all  plain  and 
dignified  in  manner.  As  a  Protestant  myself,  I 
was  well  looked  upon,  and  my  acquaintance  with 
history  gained  me  farther  respect.  For  we  had 
something  not  unlike  a  religious  controversy  at 
table,  a  gendarme  and  a  merchant  with  whom 
I  dined  being  both  strangers  to  the  place  and 
Catholics.  The  young  men  of  the  house  stood 
round  and  supported  me;  and  the  whole  discus¬ 
sion  was  tolerantly  conducted,  and  surprised  a 
man  brought  up  among  the  infinitesimal  and  con¬ 
tentious  differences  of  Scotland.  The  merchant, 
indeed,  grew  a  little  warm,  and  was  far  less 
pleased  than  some  others  with  my  historical  ac- 


THE  CAMISARDS 


l77 

quirements.  But  the  gendarme  was  mighty  easy 
over  it  all. 

“  It ’s  a  bad  idea  for  a  man  to  change/’  said 
he;  and  the  remark  was  generally  applauded. 

That  was  not  the  opinion  of  the  priest  and 
soldier  at  our  Lady  of  the  Snows.  But  this  is 
a  different  race;  and  perhaps  the  same  great¬ 
heartedness  that  upheld  them  to  resist,  now 
enables  them  to  differ  in  a  kind  spirit.  For 
courage  respects  courage;  but  where  a  faith  has 
been  trodden  out,  we  may  look  for  a  mean  and 
narrow  population.  The  true  work  of  Bruce  and 
Wallace  was  the  union  of  the  nations;  not  that 
they  should  stand  apart  awhile  longer,  skirmish¬ 
ing  upon  their  borders ;  but  that,  when  the  time 
came,  they  might  unite  with  self-respect.  The 
merchant  was  much  interested  in  my  journey,  and 
thought  it  dangerous  to  sleep  afield. 

“  There  are  the  wolves,”  said  he;  “  and  then  it 
is  known  you  are  an  Englishman.  The  English 
have  always  long  purses,  and  it  might  very  well 
enter  into  some  one’s  head  to  deal  you  an  ill  blow 
some  night.” 


178  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

I  told  him  I  was  not  much  afraid  of  such  acci¬ 
dents;  and  at  any  rate  judged  it  unwise  to  dwell 
upon  alarms  or  consider  small  perils  in  the  ar¬ 
rangement  of  life.  Life  itself,  I  submitted,  was 
a  far  too  risky  business  as  a  whole  to  make  each 
additional  particular  of  danger  worth  regard. 
“  Something,”  said  I,  “  might  burst  in  your  in¬ 
side  any  day  of  the  week,  and  there  would  be 
an  end  of  you,  if  you  were  locked  into  your 
room  with  three  turns  of  the  key.” 

“Cependant,”  said  he,  “  coucher  dehors !” 

“  God,”  said  I,  “  is  everywhere.” 

“  Cependant ,  coucher  dehors !  ”  he  repeated,  and 
his  voice  was  eloquent  of  terror. 

He  was  the  only  person,  in  all  my  voyage,  who 
saw  anything  hardy  in  so  simple  a  proceeding; 
although  many  considered  it  superfluous.  Only 
one,  on  the  other  hand,  professed  much  delight 
in  the  idea ;  and  that  was  my  Plymouth  Brother, 
who  cried  out,  when  I  told  him  I  sometimes  pre¬ 
ferred  sleeping  under  the  stars  to  a  close  and 
noisy  alehouse,  “  Now  I  see  that  you  know  the 
Lord !  ” 


THE  CAMISARDS 


*79 

The  merchant  asked  me  for  one  of  my  cards 
as  I  was  leaving,  for  he  said  I  should  be  some¬ 
thing  to  talk  of  in  the  future,  and  desired  me 
to  make  a  note  of  his  request  and  reason;  a  de¬ 
sire  with  which  I  have  thus  complied. 

A  little  after  two  I  struck  across  the  Mimente, 
and  took  a  rugged  path  southward  up  a  hillside 
covered  with  loose  stones  and  tufts  of  heather. 
At  the  top,  as  is  the  habit  of  the  country,  the 
path  disappeared ;  and  I  left  my  she-ass  munch¬ 
ing  heather,  and  went  forward  alone  to  seek  a 
road. 

I  was  now  on  the  separation  of  two  vast  water¬ 
sheds;  behind  me  all  the  streams  were  bound  for 
the  Garonne  and  the  Western  Ocean;  before  me 
was  the  basin  of  the  Rhone.  Hence,  as  from  the 
Lozere,  you  can  see  in  clear  weather  the  shining 
of  the  Gulf  of  Lyons ;  and  perhaps  from  here 
the  soldiers  of  Salomon  may  have  watched  for 
the  topsails  of  Sir  Cloudesley  Shovel,  and  the 
long-promised  aid  from  England.  You  may  take 
this  ridge  as  lying  in  the  heart  of  the  country  of 
the  Gamisards;  four  of  the  five  legions  camped 


1 80  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

all  round  it  and  almost  within  view  —  Salomon 
and  Joani  to  the  north,  Castanet  and  Roland  to 
the  south;  and  when  Julien  had  finished  his  fa¬ 
mous  work,  the  devastation  of  the  High  Ce  venues, 
which  lasted  all  through  October  and  November, 
1703,  and  during  which  four  hundred  and  sixty 
villages  and  hamlets  were,  with  fire  and  pickaxe, 
utterly  subverted,  a  man  standing  on  this  emi¬ 
nence  would  have  looked  forth  upon  a  silent, 
smokeless,  and  dispeopled  land.  Time  and  man’s 
activity  have  now  repaired  these  ruins;  Cassagnas 
is  once  more  roofed  and  sending  up  domestic 
smoke;  and  in  the  chestnut  gardens,  in  low  and 
leafy  corners,  many  a  prosperous  farmer  returns, 
when  the  day’s  work  is  done,  to  his  children  and 
bright  hearth.  And  still  it  was  perhaps  the  wild¬ 
est  view  of  all  my  journey.  Peak  upon  peak, 
chain  upon  chain  of  hills  ran  surging  southward, 
channelled  and  sculptured  by  the  winter  streams, 
feathered  from  head  to  foot  with  chestnuts,  and 
here  and  there  breaking  out  into  a  coronal  of 
cliffs.  The  sun,  which  was  still  far  from  setting, 
sent  a  drift  of  misty  gold  across  the  hill-tops,  but 


THE  CAMISARDS 


1 8 1 


the  valleys  were  already  plunged  in  a  profound 
and  quiet  shadow. 

A  very  old  shepherd,  hobbling  on  a  pair  of 
sticks,  and  wearing  a  black  cap  of  liberty,  as  if 
in  honour  of  his  nearness  to  the  grave,  directed 
me  to  the  road  for  St.  Germain  de  Calberte. 
There  was  something  solemn  in  the  isolation  of 
this  infirm  and  ancient  creature.  Where  he  dwelt, 
how  he  got  upon  this  high  ridge,  or  how  he  pro¬ 
posed  to  get  down  again,  were  more  than  I  could 
fancy.  Not  far  off  upon  my  right  was  the  famous 
Plan  de  Font  Morte,  where  Poul  with  his  Arme¬ 
nian  sabre  slashed  down  the  Camisards  of  Seguier. 
This,  methought,  might  be  some  Rip  van  Winkle 
of  the  war,  who  had  lost  his  comrades,  fleeing 
before  Poul,  and  wandered  ever  since  upon  the 
mountains.  It  might  be  news  to  him  that 
Cavalier  had  surrendered,  or  Roland  had  fallen 
fighting  with  his  back  against  an  olive.  And 
while  I  ^was  thus  working  on  my  fancy,  I 
heard  him  hailing  in  broken  tones,  and  saw  him 
waving  me  to  come  back  with  one  of  his  two 
sticks.  I  had  already  got  some  way  past  him ; 


182  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

but,  leaving  Modestine  once  more,  retraced  my 
steps. 

Alas,  it  was  a  very  commonplace  affair.  The 
old  gentleman  had  forgot  to  ask  the  pedlar  what 
he  sold,  and  wished  to  remedy  this  neglect. 

I  told  him  sternly,  “  Nothing.” 

“  Nothing?”  cried  he. 

I  repeated  “  Nothing,”  and  made  off. 

It ’s  odd  to  think  of,  but  perhaps  I  thus  became  as 
inexplicable  to  the  old  man  as  he  had  been  to  me. 

The  road  lay  under  chestnuts,  and  though  I 
saw  a  hamlet  or  two  below  me  in  the  vale,  and 
many  lone  houses  of  the  chestnut  farmers,  it  was 
a  very  solitary  march  all  afternoon ;  and  the  even¬ 
ing  began  early  underneath  the  trees.  But  I  heard 
{he  voice  of  a  woman  singing  some  sad,  old,  end¬ 
less  ballad  not  far  off.  It  seemed  to  be  about  love 
and  a  bel  amourcux ,  her  handsome  sweetheart; 
and  I  wished  I  could  have  taken  up  the  strain  and 
answered  her,  as  I  went  on  upon  my  invisible 
woodland  way,  weaving,  like  Pippa  in  the  poem, 
my  own  thoughts  with  hers.  What  could  I  have 
told  her?  Little  enough;  and  yet  all  the  heart 


THE  CAMISARDS  183 

requires.  How  the  world  gives  and  takes  away, 
and  brings  sweethearts  near,  only  to  separate  them 
again  into  distant  and  strange  lands ;  but  to  love 
is  the  great  amulet  which  makes  the  world  a 
garden;  and  “hope,  which  comes  to  all,”  out¬ 
wears  the  accidents  of  life,  and  reaches  with  trem¬ 
ulous  hand  beyond  the  grave  and  death.  Easy 
to  say:  yea,  but  also,  by  God’s  mercy,  both  easy 
and  grateful  to  believe ! 

We  struck  at  last  into  a  wide  white  highroad, 
carpeted  with  noiseless  dust.  The  night  had  come ; 
the  moon  had  been  shining  for  a  long  while  upon 
the  opposite  mountain;  when  on  turning  a  corner 
my  donkey  and  I  issued  ourselves  into  her  light. 
I  had  emptied  out  my  brandy  at  Florae,  for  I  could 
bear  the  stuff  no  longer,  and  replaced  it  with  some 
generous  and  scented  Volnay;  and  now  I  drank 
to  the  moon’s  sacred  majesty  upon  the  road.  It 
was  but  a  couple  of  mouthfuls;  yet  I  became 
thenceforth  unconscious  of  my  limbs,  and  my  blood 
flowed  with  luxury.  Even  Modestine  was  in¬ 
spired  by  this  purified  nocturnal  sunshine,  and 
bestirred  her  little  hoofs  as  to  a  livelier  measure. 


1 84  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

The  road  wound  and  descended  swiftly  among 
masses  of  chestnuts.  Hot  dust  rose  from  our  feet 
and  flowed  away.  Our  two  shadows  —  mine  de¬ 
formed  with  the  knapsack,  hers  comically  be¬ 
stridden  by  the  pack  —  now  lay  before  us  clearly 
outlined  on  the  road,  and  now,  as  we  turned  a 
corner,  went  off  into  the  ghostly  distance,  and 
sailed  along  the  mountainlike  clouds.  From  time 
to  time  a  warm  wind  rustled  down  the  valley,  and 
set  all  the  chestnuts  dangling  their  bunches  of 
foliage  and  fruit ;  the  ear  was  filled  with  whisper¬ 
ing  music,  and  the  shadows  danced  in  tune.  And 
next  moment  the  breeze  had  gone  by,  and  in  all 
the  valley  nothing  moved  except  our  travelling 
feet.  On  the  opposite  slope,  the  monstrous  ribs 
and  gullies  of  the  mountain  were  faintly  designed 
in  the  moonshine ;  and  high  overhead,  in  some 
lone  house,  there  burned  one  lighted  window,  one 
square  spark  of  red  in  the  huge  field  of  sad  noc¬ 
turnal  colouring. 

At  a  certain  point,  as  I  went  downward,  turning 
many  acute  angles,  the  moon  disappeared  behind 
the  hill ;  and  I  pursued  my  way  in  great  darkness, 


THE  CAMISARDS  185 

% 

until  another  turning  shot  me  without  preparation 
into  St.  Germain  de  Calberte.  The  place  was 
asleep  and  silent,  and  buried  in  opaque  night.  Only 
from  a  single  open  door,  some  lamplight  escaped 
upon  the  road  to  show  me  I  was  come  among  men’s 
habitations.  The  two  last  gossips  of  the  evening, 
still  talking  by  a  garden  wall,  directed  me  to  the 
inn.  The  landlady  was  getting  her  chicks  to  bed; 
the  fire  was  already  out,  and  had,  not  without 
grumbling,  to  be  rekindled ;  half  an  hour  later, 
and  I  must  have  gone  supperless  to  roost. 


THE  LAST  DAY 


WHEN  I  awoke  (Thursday,  3d  October), 
and,  hearing  a  great  flourishing  of 
cocks  and  chuckling  of  contented  hens, 
betook  me  to  the  window  of  the  clean  and  com¬ 
fortable  room  where  I  had  slept  the  night,  I  looked 
forth  on  a  sunshiny  morning  in  a  deep  vale  of  chest¬ 
nut  gardens.  It  was  still  early,  and  the  cock-crows, 
and  the  slanting  lights,  and  the  long  shadows  en¬ 
couraged  me  to  be  out  and  look  round  me. 

St.  Germain  de  Calberte  is  a  great  parish  nine 
leagues  round  about.  At  the  period  of  the  wars, 
and  immediately  before  the  devastation,  it  was 
inhabited  by  two  hundred  and  seventy-five  families, 
of  which  only  nine  were  Catholic;  and  it  took  the 
cure  seventeen  September  days  to  go  from  house 
to  house  on  horseback  for  a  census.  But  the  place 
itself,  although  capital  of  a  canton,  is  scarce  larger 
than  a  hamlet.  It  lies  terraced  across  a  steep  slope 


THE  CAMISARDS  187 

in  the  midst  of  mighty  chestnuts.  The  Protestant 
chapel  stands  below  upon  a  shoulder;  in  the  midst 
of  the  town  is  the  quaint  old  Catholic  church. 

It  was  here  that  poor  Du  Chayla,  the  Christian 
martyr,  kept  his  library  and  held  a  court  of  mis¬ 
sionaries  ;  here  he  had  built  his  tomb,  thinking 
to  lie  among  a  grateful  population  whom  he  had 
redeemed  from  error;  and  hither  on  the  morrow 
of  his  death  they  brought  the  body,  pierced  with 
two-and-fifty  wounds,  to  be  interred.  Clad  in  his 
priestly  robes,  he  was  laid  out  in  state  in  the  church. 
The  cure,  taking  his  text  from  Second  Samuel, 
twentieth  chapter  and  twelfth  verse,  “  And  Amasa 
wallowed  in  his  blood  in  the  highway,”  preached 
a  rousing  sermon,  and  exhorted  his  brethren  to 
die  each  at  his  post,  like  their  unhappy  and  illus¬ 
trious  superior.  In  the  midst  of  this  eloquence 
there  came  a  breeze  that  Spirit  Seguier  was  near 
at  hand ;  and  behold !  all  the  assembly  took  to  their 
horses’  heels,  some  east,  some  west,  and  the  cure 
himself  as  far  as  Alais. 

Strange  was  the  position  of  this  little  Catholic 
metropolis,  a  thimbleful  of  Rome,  in  such  a  wild 


1 88  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

and  contrary  neighbourhood.  On  the  one  hand, 

the  legion  of  Salomon  overlooked  it  from  Cas- 

* 

sagnas ;  on  the  other,  it  was  cut  off  from  assistance 
by  the  legion  of  Roland  at  Mialet.  The  cure , 
Louvrelenil,  although  he  took  a  panic  at  the  arch¬ 
priest’s  funeral,  and  so  hurriedly  decamped  to 
Alais,  stood  well  by  his  isolated  pulpit,  and  thence 
uttered  fulminations  against  the  crimes  of  the 
Protestants.  Salomon  besieged  the  village  for  an 
hour  and  a  half,  but  was  beat  back.  The  militia¬ 
men,  on  guard  before  the  cure's  door,  could  be 
heard,  in  the  black  hours,  singing  Protestant  psalms 
and  holding  friendly  talk  with  the  insurgents. 
And  in  the  morning,  although  not  a  shot  had  been 
fired,  there  would  not  be  a  round  of  powder  in 
their  flasks.  Where  was  it  gone  ?  All  handed  over 
to  the  Camisards  for  a  consideration.  Untrusty 
guardians  for  an  isolated  priest ! 

That  these  continual  stirs  were  once  busy  in  St. 
Germain  de  Calberte,  the  imagination  with  diffi¬ 
culty  receives ;  all  is  now  so  quiet,  the  pulse  of 
human  life  now  beats  so  low  and  still  in  this  hamlet 
of  the  mountains.  Boys  followed  me  a  great  way 


THE  CAMISARDS  189 

off,  lik'e  a  timid  sort  of  lion-hunters;  and  people 
turned  round  to  have  a  second  look,  or  came  out 
of  their  houses,  as  I  went  by.  My  passage  was 
the  first  event,  you  would  have  fancied,  since  the 
Camisards.  There  was  nothing  rude  or  forward 
in  this  observation ;  it  was  but  a  pleased  and  won¬ 
dering  scrutiny,  like  that  of  oxen  or  the  human 
infant;  yet  it  wearied  my  spirits,  and  soon  drove 
me  from  the  street. 

I  took  refuge  on  the  terraces,  which  are  here 
greenly  carpeted  with  sward,  and  tried  to  imitate 
with  a  pencil  the  inimitable  attitudes  of  the  chest¬ 
nuts  as  they  bear  up  their  canopy  of  leaves.  Ever 
and  again  a  little  wind  went  by,  and  the  nuts 
dropped  all  around  me,  with  a  light  and  dull  sound, 
upon  the  sward.  The  noise  was  as  of  a  thin  fall 
of  great  hailstones;  but  there  went  with  it  a  cheer¬ 
ful  human  sentiment  of  an  approaching  harvest 
and  farmers  rejoicing  in  their  gains.  Looking  up, 
I  could  see  the  brown  nut  peering  through  the 
husk,  which  was  already  gaping  ;  and  between  the 
stems  the  eye  embraced  an  amphitheatre  of  hill, 
sunlit  and  green  with  leaves. 


!9o  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

I  have  not  often  enjoyed  a  place  more  deeply. 
I  moved  in  an  atmosphere  of  pleasure,  and  felt 
light  and  quiet  and  content.  But  perhaps  it  was 
not  the  place  alone  that  so  disposed  my  spirit. 
Perhaps  some  one  was  thinking  of  me  in  another 
country ;  or  perhaps  some  thought  of  my  own 
had  come  and  gone  unnoticed,  and  yet  done  me 
good.  For  some  thoughts,  which  sure  would  be 
the  most  beautiful,  vanish  before  we  can  rightly 
scan  their  features;  as  though  a  god,  travelling 
by  our  green  highways,  should  but  ope  the  door, 
give  one  smiling  look  into  the  house,  and  go  again 
for  ever.  Was  it  Apollo,  or  Mercury,  or  Love  with 
"folded  wings?  Who  shall  say?  But  we  go  the 
lighter  about  our  business,  and  feel  peace  and 
pleasure  in  our  hearts. 

I  dined  with  a  pair  of  Catholics.  They  agreed 
in  the  condemnation  of  a  young  man,  a  Catholic, 
who  had  married  a  Protestant  girl  and  gone  over 
to  the  religion  of  his  wife.  A  Protestant  born  they 
could  understand  and  respect;  indeed,  they  seemed 
to  be  of  the  mind  of  an  old  Catholic  woman,  who 
told  me  that  same  day  there  was  no  difference 


THE  CAMISARDS 


19I 

between  the  two  sects,  save  that  “  wrong  was  more 
wrong  for  the  Catholic/’  who  had  more  light  and 
guidance;  but  this  of  a  man’s  desertion  filled  them 
with  contempt. 

“  It  is  a  bad  idea  for  a  man  to  change,”  said  one. 

It  may  have  been  accidental,  but  you  see  how 
this  phrase  pursued  me ;  and  for  myself,  I  believe 
it  is  the  current  philosophy  in  these  parts.  I  have 
some  difficulty  in  imagining  a  better.  It ’s  not  only 
a  great  flight  of  confidence  for  a  man  to  change 
his  creed  and  go  out  of  his  family  for  heaven’s 
sake ;  but  the  odds  are  —  nay,  and  the  hope  is  — 
that,  with  all  this  great  transition  in  the  eyes  of 
man,  he  has  not  changed  himself  a  hair’s-breadth 
to  the  eyes  of  God.  Honour  to  those  who  do  so, 
for  the  wrench  is  sore.  But  it  argues  something 
narrow,  whether  of  strength  or  weakness,  whether 

t 

of  the  prophet  or  the  fool,  in  those  who  can  take 
a  sufficient  interest  in  such  infinitesimal  and  human 
operations,  or  who  can  quit  a  friendship  for  a 
doubtful  process  of  the  mind.  And  I  think  I 
should  not  leave  my  old  creed  for  another,  chang¬ 
ing  only  words  for  other  words  ;  but  by  some  brave 


i92  travels  with  a  donkey 

reading,  embrace  it  in  spirit  and  truth,  and  find 
wrong  as  wrong  for  me  as  for  the  best  of  other 
communions. 

The  phylloxera  was  in  the  neighbourhood ;  and 
instead  of  wine  we  drank  at  dinner  a  more  econom¬ 
ical  juice  of  the  grape  —  la  Parisienne,  they  call 
it.  It  is  made  by  putting  the  fruit  whole  into  a 
cask  with  water;  one  by  one  the  berries  ferment 
and  burst;  what  is  drunk  during  the  day  is  sup¬ 
plied  at  night  in  water;  so,  with  ever  another 
pitcher  from  the  well,  and  ever  another  grape 
exploding  and  giving  out  its  strength,  one  cask 
of  Parisienne  may  last  a  family  till  spring.  It  is, 
as  the  reader  will  anticipate,  a  feeble  beverage,  but 
very  pleasant  to  the  taste. 

What  with  dinner  and  coffee,  it  was  long  past 

three  before  I  left  St.  Germain  de  Calberte.  I 

% 

went  down  beside  the  Gardon  of  Mialet,  a  great 
glaring  watercourse  devoid  of  water,  and  through 
St.  Etienne  de  Vallee  Frangaise,  or  Val  Fran- 
cesque,  as  they  used  to  call  it;  and  towards  even¬ 
ing  began  to  ascend  the  hill  of  St.  Pierre.  It  was 
a  long  and  steep  ascent.  Behind  me  an  empty 


THE  CAMISARDS 


l93 

carriage  returning  to  St.  Jean  du  Gard  kept  hard 
upon  my  tracks,  and  near  the  summit  overtook 
me.  The  driver,  like  the  rest  of  the  world,  was 
sure  I  was  a  pedlar;  but,  unlike  others,  he  was 
sure  of  what  I  had  to  sell.  He  had  noticed  the  blue 
wool  which  hung  out  of  my  pack  at  either  end; 
and  from  this  he  had  decided,  beyond  my  power 
to  alter  his  decision,  that  I  dealt  in  blue-wool 
collars,  such  as  decorate  the  neck  of  the  French 
draught-horse. 

I  had  hurried  to  the  topmost  powers  of  Mo- 
destine,  for  I  dearly  desired  to  see  the  view  upon 
the  other  side  before  the  day  had  faded.  But  it 
was  night  when  I  reached  the  summit;  the  moon 
was  riding  high  and  clear ;  and  only  a  few  grey 
streaks  of  twilight  lingered  in  the  west.  A  yawn¬ 
ing  valley,  gulfed  in  blackness,  lay  like  a  hole  in 
created  Nature  at  my  feet;  but  the  outline  of  the 
hills  was  sharp  against  the  sky.  There  was  Mount 
Aigoal,  the  stronghold  of  Castanet.  And  Castanet, 
not  only  as  an  active  undertaking  leader,  deserves 
some  mention  among  Camisards ;  for  there  is  a 

spray  of  rose  among  his  laurel ;  and  he  showed 

r3 


i94  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

how,  even  in  a  public  tragedy,  love  will  have  its 
way.  In  the  high  tide  of  war  he  married,  in  his 
mountain  citadel,  a  young  and  pretty  lass  called 
Mariette.  There  were  great  rejoicings;  and  the 
bridegroom  released  five-and-twenty  prisoners  in 
honour  of  the  glad  event.  Seven  months  after¬ 
wards  Mariette,  the  Princess  of  the  Cevennes,  as 
they  called  her  in  derision,  fell  into  the  hands  of 
the  authorities,  where  it  was  like  to  have  gone  hard 
with  her.  But  Castanet  was  a  man  of  execution, 
and  loved  his  wife.  He  fell  on  Valleraugue,  and 
got  a  lady  there  for  a  hostage;  and  for  the  first 
and  last  time  in  that  war  there  was  an  exchange 
of  prisoners.  Their  daughter,  pledge  of  some 
starry  night  upon  Mount  Aigoal,  has  left  descend¬ 
ants  to  this  day. 

Modestine  and  I  —  it  was  our  last  meal  together 
—  had  a  snack  upon  the  top  of  St.  Pierre,  I  on 
a  heap  of  stones,  she  standing  by  me  in  the  moon¬ 
light  and  decorously  eating  bread  out  of  my  hand. 
The  poor  brute  would  eat  more  heartily  in  this 
manner;  for  she  had  a  sort  of  affection  for  me, 
which  I  was  soon  to  betray. 


THE  CAMISARDS 


*95 

It  was  a  long  descent  upon  St.  Jean  du  Gard, 
and  we  met  no  one  but  a  carter,  visible  afar  off 
by  the  glint  of  the  moon  on  his  extinguished 
lantern. 

Before  ten  o’clock  we  had  got  in  and  were  at 
supper;  fifteen  miles  and  a  stiff  hill  in  little  beyond 
six  hours ! 


FAREWELL,  MODESTINE 


ON  examination,  on  the  morning  of  Oc¬ 
tober  4th,  Modestine  was  pronounced 
unfit  for  travel.  She  would  need  at 
least  two  days’  repose  according  to  the  ostler; 
but  I  was  now  eager  to  reach  Alais  for  my  let¬ 
ters;  and,  being  in  a  civilised  country  of  stage¬ 
coaches,  I  determined  to  sell  my  lady-friend  and 
be  off  by  the  diligence  that  afternoon.  Our  yes- 
’  terday's  march,  with  the  testimony  of  the  driver 
who  had  pursued  us  up  the  long  hill  of  St.  Pierre, 
spread  a  favourable  notion  of  my  donkey’s  capa¬ 
bilities.  Intending  purchasers  were  aware  of  an  un¬ 
rivalled  opportunity.  Before  ten  I  had  an  offer  of 
twenty-five  francs ;  and  before  noon,  after  a  desper¬ 
ate  engagement,  I  sold  her,  saddle  and  all,  for  five- 
and-thirty.  The  pecuniary  gain  is  not  obvious, 
but  I  had  bought  freedom  into  the  bargain. 

St.  Jean  du  Gard  is  a  large  place  and  largely 


THE  CAMISARDS 


197 

Protestant.  The  maire,  a  Protestant,  asked  me 
to  help  him  in  a  small  matter  which  is  itself 
characteristic  of  the  country.  The  young  women 
of  the  Cevennes  profit  by  the  common  religion 
and  the  difference  of  the  language  to  go  largely 
as  governesses  into  England;  and  here  was  one, 
a  native  of  Mialet,  struggling  with  English  cir¬ 
culars  from  two  different  agencies  in  London.  I 
gave  what  help  I  could;  and  volunteered  some 
advice,  which  struck  me  as  being  excellent. 

One  thing  more  I  note.  The  phylloxera  has 
ravaged  the  vineyards  in  this  neighbourhood;  and 
in  the  early  morning,  under  some  chestnuts  by 
the  river,  I  found  a  party  of  men  working  with 
a  cider-press.  I  could  not  at  first  make  out  what 
they  were  after,  and  asked  one  fellow  to  explain. 

“  Making  cider,”  he  said.  “  Oui,  c’est  comme 
qa.  Comme  dans  le  nord !  ” 

There  was  a  ring  of  sarcasm  in  his  voice;  the 
country  was  going  to  the  devil. 

It  was  not  until  I  was  fairly  seated  by  the  driver, 
and  rattling  through  a  rocky  valley  with  dwarf 
olives,  that  I  became  aware  of  my  bereavement. 


198  TRAVELS  WITH  A  DONKEY 

I  had  lost  Modestine.  Up  to  that  moment  I  had 
thought  I  hated  her;  but  now  she  was  gone, 

“  And,  O, 

The  difference  to  me  !  ” 

For  twelve  days  we  had  been  fast  compan¬ 
ions  ;  we  had  travelled  upwards  of  a  hundred 
and  twenty  miles,  crossed  several  respectable 
ridges,  and  jogged  along  with  our  six  legs  by 
many  a  rocky  and  many  a  boggy  by-road.  After 
the  first  day,  athough  sometimes  I  was  hurt  and 
distant  in  manner,  I  still  kept  my  patience;  and 
as  for  her,  poor  soul !  she  had  come  to  regard 
me  as  a  god.  She  loved  to  eat  out  of  my  hand. 
She  was  patient,  elegant  in  form,  the  colour  of 
an  ideal  mouse,  and  inimitably  small.  Her  faults 
were  those  of  her  racd  and  sex ;  her  virtues  were 

her  own.  Farewell,  and  if  for  ever - 

Father  Adam  wept  when  he  sold  her  to  me; 
after  I  had  sold  her  in  my  turn,  I  was  tempted 
to  follow  his  example;  and  being  alone  with  a 
stage-driver  and  four  or  five  agreeable  young  men, 
I  did  not  hesitate  to  yield  to  my  emotion. 


V 


# 


